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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939207">3joyride: lying</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0'>theAsh0</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Joyride [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes’s Post-Winter Soldier Hydra Revenge World Tour, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I know exactly where this is going but don't know where this starts and the next part ends yet, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, May contain traces of humor, One-Sided Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Recovery, Reference to Bestiality, Reference to Incest, Road Trips, Self-Hatred, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Spy Natasha Romanov, Super Soldier Serum, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:07:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven't even made it into South-Africa before James can no longer control his inner urges and decides to be a little shit.</p><p>or: Wanda Maximov and Bucky Barnes go on a road trip. Everything goes to hell. But maybe that was the plan all along.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Wanda Maximoff, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Wanda Maximoff, Loki/Wanda Maximoff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Joyride [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi guys, road trip, starting now!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In our previous fic, Bucky went by James. mostly.<br/>today however..?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two weeks later, when James and Wanda have already made their way out of Wakanda and through most of Africa’s main-land, James can no longer control his inner urges and decides to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>a little shit.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's not even sure why he does it; what the root cause is. Maybe it’s the pressure of stepping out in the open like this, near-enough with a target painted on his shoulder. Maybe it’s the constant bugging of his Kimoyo beads, lighting up with a dozen different messages. Shuri’s check-ups and Steve well-meant drivel and Natalia threats; which, honestly, that at least he knows how to deal with. Knows where that’s coming from. But still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It could also be some sick urge to prove to himself that Wanda really, truly</span>
  <em>
    <span> needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Needs his supervision traversing the mainland of Africa without calling unwanted attention. Yes; it could be any of those. Or all the above. Or, none of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing that sets him in motion though; the trigger to the powderkeg? </span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> he can name. That is definitely</span>
  <em>
    <span> Natalia fucking Romanov.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because the fucking Black Widow has, in his absence, grown into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>television celebrity!</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And James </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>that is 'Nat's' assigned task.That Romanov’s been running interference since the start, disappearing and then reappearing in the limelight. From one country to the next, gone and back like a ghost. Keeping the general public's focus away from Steve, the Falcon and Barton. Perhaps even away from him and Wanda now as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(And everyone is working their asses off;  all of Steve's rogue Avengers working tirelessly from the countries that never signed the Sokovia accords. Laying on the charm thick, doing their time in community service. They are careful too, this time, to set up deals with governments before they drop in. Get some positive media attention, and disappear again.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusting,</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t it? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Captain America may have gone rogue. But Romanov, with her haunted eyes and checkered past, is the poster girl. She’s doing all the shows too, hitting all the channels. Went to Doctor Phill and Oprah Winfry and everything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And at least James hasn’t had the displeasure of being exposed to those. But when James returns from his shower, towel over his shoulder to let his hair dry, the tear-jerker interview Wanda watches in their joint hotel room has James sick to his stomach. So much so that it turns his disgruntled, mostly in-mouth commentary from these weeks into speech.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck m,” James breathes as he throws himself on the empty bed. Because what do they mean by </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘the greatest spy known to man’</span>
  </em>
  <span> ? All the </span>
  <em>
    <span>decent</span>
  </em>
  <span> spies you don’t know about. Obviously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this time Wanda grunts at him; “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>? I’m listening to this.” Like she hasn’t read his mind; hasn’t had to deal with that kind of loud distraction:  all the screaming and cusses and objections he’s had running through his head up until now. Though, Wanda says she’s learned not to look, and James has just about given up on catching her out on a lie on that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So James blinks, turns his head to watch her, on the other bed, back against the headboard, eyes fixed in open adoration at the screen. It is sickening. Disgusting and wrong. James grits his teeth, wondering out loud. “What is so great about Romanov anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maximov straightens, fluffing up her pillow and crossing her legs, one furtive glance his way because she probably hadn’t expected a word out of him. And yes, he has been pretty much mute these last two weeks. And Wanda has given plenty of clues she doesn’t like that. That she wants to be friends. But, James hasn’t been in the mood, and changing now, changing James would be self-destructive. To Wanda, it must be special to hear anything but the odd curse out of him. Perhaps she sees this as a chance at improving relations. Perhaps this is why she offers, slowly: “You just have to admire her. The kind of hole she had to crawl out of, but she really made herself into something; someone amazing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bucky groans under his breath, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> they feel she’s somebody? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Smile at the camera like you want it, little media whore. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And even James thinks she was better before. Back when that smile was something offered only to those lucky enough to be designated as targets. James thinks there’s beauty in that; the way a Black Widow eliminated her target. Sure, murder is murder. But to die after the height of passion, after experiencing the best bliss life has to offer, must be the best death there is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, James reals it in; that nasty </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>rage. He plasters on a fake smile. “Come on, everyone can see, she got lucky. Right place, right time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And sometimes he wonders if the people even understand what a Black Widow is. What it does, and how it does it. Because Wanda shrugs: “Most would say wrong place, wrong time. But she turned that around. Owned up to it and to her mistakes. And she tries to do better. And, she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not even afraid to show us her weak side. People can really relate to her. None of the other Avengers could have done that half as well as her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Weak side,</span>
  </em>
  <span> yeah right. James knows the spiders have their weak side. Their controllable side; their docile side. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. “It’s not hard. Anyone could do it. I could do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witch finally looks at him; turns down the sound and blinks. Like she only now notices him there. And, she measures him up. For a moment, James thinks she can see him for real. Until she dismisses him out of hand. “No, you can’t. You don’t look the part.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns back to the tv, shrugs, “maybe after we first picked you up. Or after Tony shot your arm off. Now, you just look too imposing. Too big, too strong. Romanov’s a slight woman. Half her job is looking unassuming. Big guy like you, most of m won’t even believe you could have a weakness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James crosses his arms tight, and tries not to scowl too hard at the TV. He’s being petulant, he knows. But he feels professionally slighted. Yes, he’s been putting on some weight, bulking back up. And he’s got his new shiny arm. Taking care of himself and watching his personal hygiene. But that’s because he’s supposed to be in the best condition for battle. Or so he’d assumed. If a media pity-party had been the plan then James could have saved himself the trouble. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, Ross’s men break up the interview on-camera. Soldier running in and holding camera men and journalists at gun-point. But, as it is a live-show the camera runs on. And, though Natashia had been on-screen a moment before. She is gone, before the SWAT-team even has eyes on her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course she is. That’s child’s play for someone of Natalia’s training. Hell, James distinctly remembers showing her five different ways to achieve that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then the anchorman has to add insult to injury. Looks at the ever-running camera as the confused soldiers run around, searching high and low. “There you have it, people. Natashia Romanov. Flown the coop. She really is like a ghost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, yes; Bucky is being a petulant, childish little shit. And it’s not even the witch’s fault. But for some reason, the feeling won’t turn off. Doesn’t leave him when he breathes in, then out as he lets go. It only seems to get stronger, and James doesn’t understand why. All he knows is what he tells Wanda: that he needs to have some fresh air. And he walks out, into the dark streets of a Botswana town. Stands there, in his boots and sensible James-style pantalon and long-sleeves shirt hiding the arm. Stands there, only now realising he still has a towel over his shoulder from the shower. And he wills himself to turn around. To return to Wanda, and their shared room.. and then he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then James realises,.. he can't, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn't</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Staying under the radar is easy; James can do it in his sleep. He could have done it without the Widow’s little smoke-screen. He could have found the Rogues without Steve’s helpful messages warning them to meet at Cape-Town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But does Wanda understand how well James has gone about hiding them? Does she </span>
  <em>
    <span>appreciate</span>
  </em>
  <span> it? Does she know she needs him? Does she</span>
  <em>
    <span> love</span>
  </em>
  <span> him? No; she probably doesn’t recognise his skills at all, let alone appreciates them. Well Wanda, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, yes, James is being a little shit. But it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm</span>
  </em>
  <span> the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> ghost.” He takes the towel off his shoulders and throws it up in a little dramatic puff. “ Poof! Now you see me, now you don't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James has disappeared before the towel hits the street.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. road trip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it all starts halfway through Zambia</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s more to it, of course. More to it than just fuck-all getting tired of it and bailing. Although honestly, that's a big part of it. A major part, really. Because what would be the point of mad sniper disappearance skills if you don’t get to use them when the walls start coming at you from all sides? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the root cause was</span>
  <em>
    <span> not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Natalia fucking Romanov, with her cheap magic tricks on live TV, thank you very much. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> that special. Doesn’t deserve that kind of credit. No, honestly the point where the whole shit-show started railroading off the tracks? The moment supreme where James went from maintaining that stiff upper lip (okay it’s more of a sad puppy face), straight to where-s-the-fucking-exit-from-this-ride? If he had to guess James would say it was somewhere half across Zambia.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this point, James had procured a car. Legally, from a smiling reed-thin car-salesman that had ties to Wakanda. And, it turned out, a heart condition that had kicked in quite by surprise when he’d found whom the King of Wakanda had asked him to help. But the salesman had pulled through his initial panic attack quite nicely, took his medicine, and fixed up James and Wanda with the best four-by-four Ford Ranger in the lot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, that much was good. They were making good time with it; roaring along the freeway. And sure, it rattled; something inside the left door shaking a little as they cruised over an empty freeway in the heart of Zambia. But James didn’t think it was going to be a problem. Probably just something in the mechanism of the lock or window. Until Wanda spoke up. “Pretty sure you’re speeding.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James had almost succeeded at forgetting about her until now. Because she’d given up on conversation hours ago and curled up into the shot-gun seat; the left side seat. Made good pretence at sleeping.- had she been sleeping? Frowning slightly, James studied her from the rearview mirror. The witch did look a little rumpled, rubbing at weary eyes. But, maybe she was faking that? Maybe she’d been busy reading his thoughts the last two hours.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because she could </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“.. James? Please slow down?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, if she had been reading his thoughts, she’d know that he was speeding because they’d passed mid-morning and James knew the next good pitstop was over three hundred miles still. And he was not looking forward to spending another hot afternoon on this road in the full sun. Hell, Wanda didn’t even need to read his thoughts to know that. They’d already gotten caught yesterday and the day before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James, we’re going to get pulled over..” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James has to wonder about this; the trip at all. Why is he supposed to help Wanda across all of Africa when she could, whatever, fly or something to the other side in a hellolot less time? Well, he’s going to have to talk it out, it seems. So, James casts his most disarming smile the witch’s way through that little mirror and. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And fuck it, it’s falling short. Looks more like a bear expecting dinner. A depressed bear that doesn’t know yet if he’s going to eat that meal, or try to choke himself on it. It’s the hair, probably. All in his face. Or maybe the beard. It’s not really working for a disarming appearance. Come to think of it, it’s not really helping with cooling off either. Regardless, he plows ahead, shark’s grin and all. “Don’t worry, I’ll see any cops long before they can time me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda feels tense now though; sweating a little too much. “Not the point. Just. Just.. slow down okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James sighes, takes his foot off the throttle half-way. And grunts a “better?” at her a minute later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And isn’t this just great? Now they are going to get backed out here in the sun </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> If Wanda was afraid of the engine blowing from that extra dot of speed, she would do better to worry about it when the airco tries to keep up with a hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it gets Wanda to relax. She turns away, at least; studies the countryside. There’s literally nothing out there. Still, James enjoys the privacy. Practices his friendly, disarming smile. The one that makes him look like a sweet little teddy-bear, not the rabies grizzly one. Which seems to be the one he keeps ending up with. Well, fuck it. There’s little enough to laugh about anyway. Shuri send him on his way, and now he’s on his way to meet with Steve and all the other Rogue Avengers and guess what? James is still mad as fuck at Steve.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Next to him, Wanda starts humming a song. Something modern, up beat. And, </span>
  <em>
    <span>read the room Wanda?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Is she not going to consider his feelings at all. He means, if she’s reading his mind she might as well..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She</span>
  <b> is</b>
  <span> reading his mind, isn’t she?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James sets his jaw. Imagines putting his foot down on the gas again. Then letting go of the steering wheel, with both hands. And reach out, with his left, black Jewel of an arm. Tangle those artificial fingers into those mahony brown curls, cup the back of her head, and then pull her in. Mash his mouth to hers. Open wide, so he can stick his tongue down her throat. And.. and, while he’s imagining anyway, he could bite her lips..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No reaction from the witch. No speeding of her heartbeat, no change in breathing. No pheromones into the air, of fear of arousal or anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James frowns at her. Studies her from the periphery of his vision, keeping unseeing eyes on the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is she for real? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Either she’s really not looking into his head, or she’s a better actor than he is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda’s little melody ends, and apparently she’s stuped for another. And also, thank god, for conversation. So they spend another twenty miles or so in complete silence before James sighs to himself. He’s being very unsocial, and it is, apparently, even dragging Wanda down. James needs to get with the program. What is he, if he is not a social guy, anyway? Not much; that’s for sure. Practically nothing at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As for Wanda; sure she may be a bit of a monster. A witch and a scientific experiment. And a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking recruit</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Hydra. But, well. The last two they have in common don’t they? And just because James’s hands don’t glow red don’t mean he’s not got some freaky magic running in his veins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, a lot in common. Over all. And James, unlike most others, had very little real reason to fear Wanda. After all, what was she going to do? Look into his thoughts and feelings? There were very few of those at all. Control his actions? Hardly a rare occurrence. Rape his mind, steal his memories? Hah, been there, done that. And now that he’d had a good, long look at all the shit thrown together, James wondered why he’d mind getting wiped in the first place. None of it seemed particularly valuable right now. Perhaps he’d have been better off without them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, enough thinking. Wanda</span>
  <em>
    <span> must</span>
  </em>
  <span> be lonely; James </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> work that angle. Talk to her. Smile.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bares his teeth at himself in the rearview mirror and gives up on the second part. Angry caveman is the most positive description he can come up with. He looks old, worn down; worn-out. Maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span> old, but haggard. Like a jacket rubbed thin at the elbows and dirty at the cuffs and neck. This skin could use a wash; could use a break. Some days to air out and rest. But, he can’t, not right now. He needs to talk; to her..  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sooo..,” It stutters out the sound. Finished and done. But, now Wanda is staring at him. And James gives it his all; tries to continue that sentence. “Why do we need to get to the Rogues anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda straightens, clearly shocked at his unusual conversationalism. Blinks a few times as she flexes her hands, rolls her tongue in her mouth. “I.. you see.” Perhaps they really are a pair, James thinks. She seems as good with words as he has been lately. “Well, I met this man. When I was in a coma. I wasn’t, you see, I was in the dream world. But I met this man. Or, alien..” she huffs, looking for words. Which might be a good idea, because the witch lost any and all of James’s goodwill the moment she said</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘I met this man,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> in that dreamy eternal voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He thinks something bad is about to happen..”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James groans and turns his attention back to the road. Because, now her waterfall of words has started up again. And he fucking invited it. Only now it’s worse, because she’s talking about some alien, possibly dead, guy and gushing like a love-sick teen-ager about how beautiful and mysterious he was and James is </span>
  <em>
    <span>going to be sick.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is nearly relieved when Wanda’s phone rings. But of course it has to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking Natalia Romanov on the line.</span>
  </em>
  <span> -oh, right sorry </span>
  <em>
    <span>Natashia</span>
  </em>
  <span> now. Which, --Great name change! James bet that really </span>
  <em>
    <span>confounded</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone looking for the original Romanov. Really. Masterful slight-of-hand there Nat; worthy of the name of greatest spy ever!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And James knows what it sounds like. But, before you jump to conclusions, Romanov has </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do with driving James off rail about a week later. She’s just not important enough to James to have that kind of effect. Really, all he’s ever been to him is some kid in his class. A class he had never even wanted a part in at that. And even then, Nathalia may have thought herself smart, but honestly she was a dime in a dozen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, nothing she says or does can touch James. Even if the first thing out of her, into Wanda's ear is: “Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> with you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nope; doesn't bother James at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda, on the other hand, and somewhat to her credit, blanches. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he is..”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A short humm from the phone, while the dead landscape of Zambia passes them by. Black, sad little bush on red sand. “He better not have touched you, has he?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s sitting right next to me, Nat!” And James snorts; loudly. To convey how ridiculous that idea is. He has </span>
  <em>
    <span>standards. </span>
  </em>
  <span>James has actual zero interest to put his hands down Wanda’s pants and finger her till she comes. If any of that happens it’s solely on the witch. As for Nathalia? He never wanted anything to do with her. Though she wouldn’t even believe him if he told her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because when Wanda counters “Nat, you do know he can hear you..?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nathalia raises her voice, a hint of tension entering her usual steady tone. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> him to hear me. Because I</span>
  <em>
    <span> know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you got my texts Yasha! You wanna do the whole second chances thing, I can hardly say no. But I will not let you hurt my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James has to admire the amount of feeling she infuses into her voice. And as much as he’d like to pretend he doesn’t know where she’s coming from.. He does understand. Still, the pretence of care is all fake. The Black Widow cares for nothing but herself. She has zero commitment to comrades or ideals; she’s proven as much. But the performance is admirable. So much so that James will honor it with a word. Just the one. “Traitor!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Icy silence from the line, and James finally manages a grin. Cheshire cat with a mouth full of hooks, he’d call it. At least it fits the occasion. Wanda, fool that she is, tries to mediate. “Please just.. Why did you call? Did you find anything on that lead you would look into?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Widow clicks her tongue. “The trail runs cold in Somalia. That mercenary with the fake face was </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> created there. The place had cosmetic surgery wards and everything. And,” voice grave and thinking, unable to make the connection. “It looks like they brought someone over from D.C. a week before he was sent out. That is only about two weeks after T’Challa first took in Steve and.. -and James.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James’s blood runs cold, and he quickly casts all feelings of enmity aside. The fake aid, that back in Wakanda had come so close to using the words on James; two years ago. That they are still looking; that even Nathalia is still following that trail, cold as it must be.. It’s touching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But more importantly, it brings to surface James’s own stupid mistake. And, the woman that no doubt paid the price for that. James clears his voice, calls out loudly “Did you.. Did you find anyone? Any bodies?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natalia’s voice is half confusion and half distrust. “Are you going to take an interest after all, Winter Soldier?” But she doesn’t pause, doesn’t ask for information in return. “No; I didn’t find any dead bodies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That is odd,</span>
  </em>
  <span> James thinks, frowning at the road. He’s speeding again; hopes Wanda will not notice. He knows what he did. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span> had warned him not to contact her again. And he had, against her wishes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>His poor Pestúnka! </span>
  </em>
  <span>But, what had she told him, time and again? Every time he’d looked her up, every time he’d called? She’d told him not to expect bravery from her, if Hydra ever found her. She’d told him she was too old and tired to face torture, and would sell him out in a second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it hadn’t occurred to James before. But, what if she had? And what if that had worked? What if, by some oddity Hydra had left her alive? What if his Pestúnka wasn’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> dead..?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. old acquaintance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>James makes the trip to Johannesburg in good time, hitching a ride with a truck-driver that hailed from Kongo originally. Of course, James had to make the unfortunate mistake of speaking Bantu with the man. Which secures his ride all the way, but brings up the need to spin some yarn about how he’d learned the language.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles on his mom being a nurse from the relief effort. Which becomes even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>uncomfortable when the man launches into a personal retelling of both Congo wars, for both of which Bucky has the uncomfortable realization that he has definitely had a hand in a few turns of events there. Usually just quick drop-in missions with an execution or apprehension, and he’d targeted mainly Drug Barons and Warlords. Or so a young Pierce had told him. </span>
</p><p><span>Thinking about that time is upsetting. In fact, the more he sees of Africa, the more he realises that he has too many bad half-memories here. Of killing and shooting and.. So, so many lies. Damnit, the worst thing about Hydra’s lies had been that</span> <span>he had </span><em><span>known</span></em><span> they lied. He had known, but he just didn’t have the mental energy to object anymore. </span></p><p>
  <span>Well, that’s different now. James is all-there and all-that. So, no reason to sit around moping. The first order of business is to buy some paint. Getting high-grade metal paint off an South-African market isn’t easy, and he cannot find the right color, so James ends up with several hues that he’ll be mixing himself. The filler film is easy enough, at the same small home-improvement stall. Next, a replacement set of clothes, a replacement backpack. And, for reasons he doesn’t want to consider a new, empty notebook. Though, the one he’s left in Wanda’s hotel room is as empty and pointless as this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, James finds himself trudging along thinking of a place to set up. He feels like a high mountain pack Llama sent to play mule somewhere within the desert. A plastic bag hanging from either wrist, and the new backpack on his back. He’s hot; loose hair sticking to his neck and what is a pretty full beard at this point dripping with sweat. The long sleeve shirt he’s unbuttoned, letting what little wind there is cool his chest while sweat drips down his real arm, right into the plastic bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The left, by Shuri’s magic, is cool where it connects. And James would bet it would not overheat even if he exerted it to full extent. Still, James knows he’s in the wrong part of town for a nice set-up safehouse away from prying eyes. Knows he’s hit uptown, and there’ll be no abandoned warehouses or run-down shacks close. But still, he continues on, mind warning and empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, James doesn’t really know where he’s going before he takes a left turn into a small residential street. Though, if he’d given it conscious thought, he might have. And he hums, as it clicks in his head. An address on a list; one documenting payments made. Housing costs Retirement funds set up. All ever-so methodius and professional. And that’s amusing, to Bucky: that Hydra actually retires anyone..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man makes it up his fourth-story apartment with his groceries; just barely. Curses, because the elevator was out again. And hadn’t he chosen this damned flat because of the promise of a good elevator? Whatever. He makes his way to the other side of the main room, to the open kitchen, then puts away his perishables. Stumbling about in the half-lit apartment, using natural light filtered by half blinds. He chose this place for the hot climate. Because Ivach has had enough for ten lifetimes of the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he considers as he mops the sweat from his brow, perhaps a more moderate climate would have been a wiser choice. His stylish hawaian t-shirt is drenched to the point of pulling taunt when he stretches his arms. Finally done with the top cabinet, he carefully mitigates down from the kitchen step and stretches his back, listening to the long row of pops. He is getting too old for this heat; will die of a stroke at this rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After another huff for breath he shuffles over back to the couch, looking for the remote. And freezes, true ice filling the pit of his stomach. He never thought.. He never thought.. Never thought he’d see </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shake in the old man’s hand becomes more pronounced the longer he stands, eyes still on the low table. Breath uneven and faltering, Bucky knows the signs. A deer in headlights, knowing it’s doom is approaching. Yet, too tired. Too weak to move out of the way. He grins to see it, and congratulates himself on a choice well made. This here, James would not truly appreciate. Yet Bucky, Bucky bathes and revels in the man’s palpable fear. Drinks it in, and lets it quench that thirst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After what seems forever, he drags his gaze up, to his reclining chair. A black, luxurious piece, with padded headrest and a now- raised foot cushion. Ivach</span>
  <em>
    <span> should </span>
  </em>
  <span>have noticed that; should have noticed it was not upright, as he had left the thing. But then, he had not noticed the Winter Soldier sitting in that chair either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sighs, long and draw out. “This chair’s the works. Real classy.” pushes a button and watches his feet brought higher in elevation. “Putting that retirement plan to good use I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach’s eyes are wide, pupils blown up. Bucky nearly laughs at the old man, as he tries to look towards the door, furtively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t embarrass yourself. I’m twice as fast as I used to be. And you.. You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> fast, Trochov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides -Bucky considers-  the old man is just a last strain away from a heart attack. Running would definitely finish him off. So, he drops the remote, and picks up the secondary with black-vibranium fingers. “What are these for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach swallows, opens his mouth. It’s near comical, and Bucky knows he must strike a picture, right up there in Memory Lane. The way he’s angled back into that black leather chair. But, he is so much more comfortable here than he was in his own chair. And watching the old mand huff is a balm to his wounds. Like some fish on dry land, before finally getting sound out of his old, withered throat: “желание.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that.. That is just down right insulting. Bucky frowns, turning his attention to his real hand a moment, where he’s fingering a loose thread in the chair’s arm. He soughs out a breath in quiet suffering, then turns the full power of his stare at the pathetic technician, not even considering that worthy of a response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, the man huffs, panicky. And Bucky wonders if he’ll know the futility of this. If he’ll accept his defeat with some grace left. Or, at the very least realise he has lost. Then again, if Ivach had </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>decent brains, he would have come a lot further than technician second class. With all the years of service he’d put in. “Рiжeвый.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky is fucking done with the idiot. “It’s Ржавый, you</span>
  <em>
    <span> senile old bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What’s the last time you spoke Russian anyway? Now.” Something’s off here. James is not usually this nasty. Hasn’t been nice to anyone lately really. He turns back towards the remote in his hand. “What do these buttons do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man sputters, voice hoarse. But, apparently there’s still some reason left in that vertenting grey goo inside his head. “Massage. Look, please, I’m retired for over a decade now. I don't know anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky hums, uses the sleek metal of his left to press a button. Slowly, finger-like protrusions start to massage his neck and back from behind the leather. With a groan he leans back, relaxing into the pillows. “Oh, it’s devine. Hydra retirement plans are the best. When do you think I’m up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a distinct break in Ivach’s voice. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>out. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t know. I don’t know anything! Please..”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky closes his eyes, pushing down on the armrests and tipping his head back. “Which is it? Retired or out? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been made to kill quite a few guys that wanted</span>
  <em>
    <span> out</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And you’re looking far too alive for my liking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t hurt me! You can have anything; take- take the chair if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky barks a tired laugh. “Trokchov, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did not</span>
  </em>
  <span> just offer to buy me off with an</span>
  <em>
    <span> electric chair,</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you? And here I thought you had no sense of humor.” With a click of his tongue, James takes his feet off the rest, putts them down on either side to sit up and lean forward. Elbows on his knees, teeth bared in a parody of a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach’s eyes dance over the black metal in confusion, before he finally dares look his subject of over thirty years in the eyes. Bucky meets that fearful gaze bold and easily. That always does it; never fails to spook ‘m. So, he holds the un amused look just a second longer before breaking into an easy grin. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I can’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> get</span>
  </em>
  <span> mad, because I’m just a thing. You taught me that, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Ivach’s color had been pale before, he turns green with that. “Please! That-that wasn’t me! I was just a tech. I’m an old man. I’m not hurting anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t you?” It is almost fun to pretend confusion. “Oh, my memory must be playing tricks on me again. And hey, like I said, I’m not mad. Besides, you were a pretty great mechanic too.” In a moment of divine insight, Bucky balls the hand of his left, black jewel. Swipes it through the air easily. “Hey, speaking of hurting, I got a new arm; pretty awesome, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need help with it?” Trokchov get out; swallows, tries to get his failing voice back under control. “You need repairs? I can..”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you, S-snake! You fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” James doesn’t even know when he’d stood up, but he had. And taken two menacing steps forward. He’s right in the man’s face, and towering over him easily. That nearly surprises him. Though, it shouldn’t. “You won’t get to touch me again even if it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span> combusting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unfortunate slip, Bucky considers, as he wrests control back with a deep breath. Still, no harm done. Because with the air comes a sharp yet familiar scent. Bucky laughs, watching the cowering man, shrinking in below him, a wet stain spreading around his feet. “Shoulda worn your diapers today, huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please! What do you want?” the pathetic creature cries. “I’ll do anything..” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you will.” Bucky grins, “believe me, I know...”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. the shedding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James feels pleased with himself when he steps back out on the street; pleased with finally harnessing Bucky for something useful, yes. But there’s also a pleasant tingle when James remembers that little shit’s petrified expression. Which he supposes is a bit much. But, Ivach was never any good, not even in Hydra. Dumb, unremarkable and bland in all things but his casual crudeness and shoddy craftsmanship. </p><p>Of course, that pleasant tingle fades as soon as he steps into the alley he’d hidden his supplies, looks behind the dumpsters, and finds all his bags missing. James curses himself five different ways, because this might be a semi-uptown area, there’s still enough kids about for his supplies to be a near-certain loss. And, he knows the smart thing to do is cut his losses and just dig into the funds T’Challa had set up for him.  </p><p>But he is somehow not inclined to do things the smart way today. He’s sick of the constant hand-out; sick of doing things <em> James’s </em> way. And so, instead, he weaves his way through the busy afternoon crowds, pickpocketing two tourists and a stately dressed geriatric that just had it coming. Probably because something about him reminded James of Secretary Pierce.</p><p>And James knows that’s nonsense. That he needs to stop. But he keeps going anyway, because it feels damn good, even if the people he takes from probably don’t really have it coming like he feels they do. </p><p>Still, he tells himself it’s innocent enough. Until he finds the first signs of the perpetrators… of the little urchins responsible for theft. Graffiti on a wall, done in <em> his </em> metal paint. Sprayed, without mixing of course; but smelling fresh and definitely the hues he’d bought. He follows their excited voices to a shadowed alley, sneaking up on them where they are gathered around his backpack. </p><p>They are way too late, when they finally take notice of him. And they do make a decent attempt at escape; jump up in a scattering of dark limbs and run every way - one right past, the others to the side, straight up or back towards a dumpster to use it for clambering up. But the Winter Soldier is far past those childish tactics; simply sticks out a hand and grabs the boy that had tried to dart past him.</p><p>And, for the first time James wonders about his choice to bring no weapons; no gun or knife to brandish in easy threat. Just a cold, black metal arm. One he needs to bear and brandish, throwing back the sleeve and raising it for all to see, before he carefully places it around the boy held against his chest. He looks up, into the hiding places he knows the other boys have hid themselves. Calls out in clear Afrikaans: “I’d like my stuff back now.”</p><p>When the alley stays as quiet as James knew it would, he squeezes just a little. The boy starts crying, but his friends don’t even make a sound. That is.. Also according to plan. But it’s not worth it. Not worth it. He should cut his losses, leave them be. The boy chokes; whimpers, in English: “Please! Please!!”</p><p>“Not your fault.” He admits, then switches to Nguni, loudly proclaiming to the others: “give it back, or I’ll crush your friend.”  </p><p>A head sticks up from a roof, then another. They’re smart kids; these little street rats. They don’t come close. But they do come out, just one at the time, place his supplies and backpack and paints on a heap at the far side of the alley, where he can see them. When James is sure all the parts are back he nods, relinquishing the hold on the boy’s neck. In an afterthought, he pulls out his wallet; the one with what’s left of his non-stolen cash, and pushes it on the boy.</p><p>He watches them run off feeling slightly sick. He knows money is an ill-fitting bandage for this form of damage. James <em> knows. </em> Though, he is sure the boy will disagree. “Fuck m.” They had been right; Steve for hunting him down when he was alone, Shuri for looking after him, and then sending him on this stupid errand to oversee Wanda so he’d be <em> too busy to get into trouble. </em> He <em> really </em> shouldn’t be left running amok. But James <em> had </em>known that. That was what he’d had his Pestúnka for, wasn’t it? Even if she’d never agreed. Always fought him on it.</p><p>Well, James will just have to find her. As soon as he’s done fixing himself up. He still has trouble believing Pestúnka is even alive. Finding her corpse will not be pleasant. But, he knows better than to leave a friend. So, he will not. Even if by the time he finds her, he does not need her at all.</p><p>But Wanda? James cannot help but grin at the thought. The Red Witch may be strong enough not to be captured or killed . But, she does not have the skill nor the experience to survive on her own. Not dropped alone in the middle of Africa. Yes, he should get to her soon as well; should not let her flounder too long. She must be <em>coming to</em> <em>pieces</em> by now. </p><p>-</p><p>The abandoned shack he settles on is situated in some slum; a hiding hole in the dark that no-one will care to keep an eye on. It is as good as any place for his work; might even suit the mood. After setting up the room; taping and boarding the broken windows so he can up his camping light and not be seen, he starts opening jars. The fast-drying plastic film meant to cover the groves between plates he leaves for now, focussing first on mixing the spray-paints he’ll need to paint his arm.</p><p>James finally settles on getting a small freezer and a prepaid phone from a close-by store. The freezer is meant to cool his spray-paint so it will be easier to mix, but he ends up the rest of the evening reading studying his arm’s manual on his Komoyo beads. So, the next morning he picks up some shaving- and hair products as well. And, because he’s feeling meganamous, some bottled water to put in the fridge. There’s no reason to bereft one’s self after all. </p><p>There is no rush; he has given Ivach a week to complete his task, and James knows that means he’ll have to send a little note on day six to remind him. But that doesn’t matter; the things he is getting ready for take time. It’s a waiting game, mostly. But keeping busy helps: he shaves. Bleaches his hair, cuts it. Then bleaches it just a careful tad further at the ends. Like his natural color is that sandy blond, and he’d either spent a lot of time in the sun or had the rest tanned up to a light yellow at some point.</p><p>When it’s all done and he looks himself over in the broken bathroom mirror. Tries on a few different smiles, and knows they slip off too easily. The cut is a tad long; medium length at the back but just little below the ears at the front. With a fringe he’d have to comb back if he doesn’t want it right in his eyes. If he puts in a bit more of a weave the grin with bared teeth should stick well; he could be an Australian tourist today. One with a temper and vocabulary to do the cliche justice. “Callous asshole, ain't ya?” he tries. But he’s just a tad too clean-shaven, and if he wants to pull off a blonde he’d have to bleach any hair on his jaw as well. </p><p>With a sigh, he sits back, legs wide; looking for the right body language; looking for someone having a good holiday and looking for a shag. Relaxed, just a little too used to getting his way. It doesn’t fit, so he goes for another set of mannerisms. Sits up bent over, knees wider in challenge. hands pressed to his thighs with an angry frown. The sleeveless shirt, a little dirty, completes the picture now. A soccer supporter from England maybe? Tipping his head to the side he carefully cracks his knuckles, studying himself. Carefully, because only the right hand can make that popping noise, and using his left to do it will end with him breaking it easily.</p><p>It doesn’t feel right. So, he cuts and searches further. Nothing feels right; nothing fits. James ends up working off Wanda’s description of her mysterious dream-man. Though that alien-man supposedly has black, long hair, which is what James had started out on. It’s too late for that; he’s cut it up to his ears by now; buzzed the underside off to the point any more will bring him too close to the old Bucky for comfort. So, a lot of hair gel will have to do.</p><p>When he’s done all he can, he returns to learning about the arm. Which he should have done a lot sooner, as there’s a lot of useful info he’s missed. Like, he can actually <em> turn off the glow </em> for several days. That would have been a useful thing, back when he was running around in Wakanda.</p><p>It’ll turn back on eventually; that eerie give-away glow. Will probably glow right through the film. It’s meant as a cooling system, so it’ll not overheat on him at least. A good enough trade-off, though James wonders if that means covering the glow will end up with overheating after all.</p><p>He frowns and reads the safety instructions, which do actually specify not closing off the cracks, but don’t give him much on why. But it’s okay. Reading up on the beads is a pleasure in itself. Except he keeps getting interrupted. Messages from Steve, more threats from Natalia. A string of messages from an unknown number that he assumes to be a panicking Wanda.</p><p>Again, the bracelet offers, with a quick tremor, a message in the upper right corner of his floating screen. </p><p>
  <span class="breply"> <b>T minus 2h before you start broadcasting. ~S.</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh. and <em> Shuri. </em> He’d thought she’d given up; it had turned quiet at her end, after the initial pickup from his disappearing act. James supposes he has again underestimated her. He frowns, trying to just forget about her. Which is, admittedly, still too high a bar.</p><p>
  <span class="breply"> <b>Your distress beacon? Open-frequency. Remember, lil bro? ~S.</b></span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Of course he remembers asking for a tracker. But, well. She’s going to call <em> him </em> the little brother? After everything, that is where he stands? It’s upsetting. It’s.. unfair. She’s doing it on purpose, getting under his skin. It’s not even name-calling. But still, she’s too good. Or, perhaps he still is too obsessed. No, <em> James </em> is still too obsessed. He just needs to finish his work here, and everything should be fine.</p><p>
  <span class="breply"><b>115 minutes left. No contact, no reset. As</b> <b> <em> you</em> </b> <b> requested, James. ~S.</b></span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>James gives in, like he always does. With her. Angry and shamed; checks the taped-up windows and turns off his campinglight. He takes his time to arrange everything just right. Sets up in the near complete dark on the crummy blanket he’d salvaged, beads on the floor strategically placed under the taped-up window. Determined to show himself cut-off from the chest down, as a darkened silhouette. He drags his feet, figuratively, and literally every time he gets up to change the angle of the camera, the back-drop of the wall behind him. She, however, picks up on the first ring.</p><p>And then her figure is floating in front of him, radiating just that bit more light than he remembered.</p><p>“James, Bast’s eyes finally! You’ve scared <em> everyone </em> to a panic disappearing like that…” Shuri is standing, in the little floating projection. Tense, hunched over her own beads. A knee-high, floating projection emanating just a fraction more light than he anticipated. Forcing him to scamper back into the dark. She, seeing too much yet too little to abate her curiosity, stalls.</p><p>“..James?” she squints; taking half a step as if that would give her end a clearer picture. It cannot; James’s camera is fixed. A solid position, and yet James folds in; hiding best he can. She doesn’t need to know. “James,.. Is that you?” then, a little louder, a little less kind. “<em> Who are you. </em>” </p><p>And he freezes. Does she not know him already? Is it the dark, making her unsure? Or is there more? Has he already left <em> James </em> behind? He wants to. Wishes to. But now, stuck between James and what would be his next iteration, someone who’s name he has not yet found. How would he even give a positive id? He’s not anyone, now. Not anymore. Not James, at least. And speaking, saying the words would give away the lie. He does not wish to lie to Shuri.</p><p>He does not wish to talk to her <em> at all, </em> he realises.</p><p>But, he can show the arm. He brings it into the picture, slowly. The glow in the dark again making him self-conscious, ready to flutter away. But, it’s the arm she gave him, so he wiggles the fingers at her carefully, like a wave.</p><p>If he had hoped for easy acceptance, he doesn’t get it. Instead, Shuri gasps, voice breathless, somewhere between astonished and disgusted. “James.. sweet gods! Is that really..? <em> What have you done to yourself. </em>” </p><p>And well, it’s not <em> her </em> problem anymore is it? She made it abundantly clear that he was no longer <em> her problem </em> . He.. James. <em> No </em>. Not-James. He realises, only now, why he has not wanted to talk to Shuri. Why he still refuses to speak a word to her. He does, however, want to show her something. And, it comes in the form of a balled fist-of-vibranium. And an extending middle-finger.</p><p>“Hah. okay. So, you’re mad.” Shuri pauses, puts down her beads somewhere as the camera changes angles minutely, which frees her hands. She rubs at a ring for a moment. Plays with her fingers and frowns, stalling for time. “I don’t think I deserve that..</p><p>“but -hold on wait.”  He; the not-James was already reaching out for his beads; ready to turn them off. Because all she needed was contact, right? He’d given her that much. And, all it does is make him <em> mad. </em> Shuri reaches out to something behind the camera, the feet of her projected figure lost a moment as she moves too close for her beads. “Okay, just let me reset the timer. But James, please find Wanda? She is worried sick about -” </p><p>Not-James holds his beads, brings them to his mouth and only just remembers not to kiss them. Nearly crushes them, then throws them against the far wall. Not too hard, he hopes. Not so hard he broke them. The room is silent and still once again. And if Shuri doesn’t get it? Well. <em> Good. </em> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. new skin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>don't say it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Wanda tells them not to worry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s the Red Witch. How hard can it be to find one man? </span>
  <em>
    <span>For her? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not hard at all. For her, it should be easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tells Steve to chillax. She’ll find his precious Bucky. Tells Shuri to wait on calling in her war dogs. James has </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> been dragged off. She would know; there would have been signs of a struggle. Had Hydar been responsible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So she tells the other Avengers to hold up; she’s got this. There’s no need to worry. Tony Stark can shove his supposedly superior surveillance; she doesn’t need his help. Doesn’t need him to send his human computer to help her. Which, she hopes she’s conveyed to him. She’s not sure; not without seizing his mind and stopping him. The man doesn’t seem to listen; but, it’s hard to say. Perhaps it’s just his mouth that can’t take a hint.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But honestly, if she could have just used her magic a little less discreetly... If she had, she would have gotten to him</span>
  <em>
    <span> days</span>
  </em>
  <span> ago. Just by looking into the heads of all the people, all the street vendors and urchins and nosy women swiping their doorstep a little too often.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, Wanda doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that anymore. Because that is a breach of privacy. Very bad, very rude behavior. Shuri had explained as much. Although, in all truth, Shuri was the last person to need to worry about anyone peeking into her mind. Wanda had looked, you see --after getting permission. Looked and nearly gotten lost in that maze of science and intellect; found herself happy to have escaped honestly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, Wanda Maximov is a better person now, and doesn’t peek without consent. Still, she’s got enough tools in her arsenal; can still follow James’s footsteps. Both by using her powers, following the trail of his essence still visible in the other plains. But also by using more human skills. Like power of deduction. And, asking around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At any rate, they need not worry. Wanda has found her way to Johannesburg. She’s nearly sure James is here. That he hasn’t left yet. Or, if he has, he somehow managed to without leaving any physical or mental trail. And that should be.. Impossible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there’s no need to worry. Someone is bound to know something. Although, after about</span>
  <em>
    <span> four days </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wanda has to admit, carefully to herself in the privacy of her own mind…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting worried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is starting to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> worried.. The residue she followed through the dreams-world is days old, and no-one knows anything about a long-haired, light-skinned man with or without a metal arm. Though he should stand out, if only for wearing long-sleeved shirts when the temperatures are soaring towards </span>
  <em>
    <span>forty celsius in the shade.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And, alright it scares her. How no one seems to know where James has gone. How it seems more and more possible, likely even that Hydra has somehow rallied enough forces to nab their Winter Soldier right off the streets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, before one goes and judges her. Wanda thinks it’s important to note that her powers and her psyche are not separate. That her magic runs in a way that means that</span>
  <em>
    <span> sometimes</span>
  </em>
  <span> what she wishes for, and what </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> happening, seamlessly flow into one. Wanda’s power can literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>make her wishes come true</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And keeping control of one’s wishes --of one’s wants, is not always an easy thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, it’s not even clear if she lost control of her powers, or if she deliberately expanded her awareness to every living thing passing her by at that local bistro. She just knows that one moment she’s sipping at a latte, trying to calm her own, spiralling mind.. And the next, she notices a young man with a definite black, metal arm on his mind...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s running after him before she even knows what she’s doing. And he, seeing her, panics as well. Turns into an alley, dark thin limbs flaying. He calls and yells for friends or backup or whatever. Wanda isn’t even listening. She follows him through a narrow street, flies up and over a shack when he tries to scramble away. And finally, annoyed, smacks him against a wall with her powers when he tries to scamper down into the next deserted alleyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Wanda will admit that she’s angry; that her blood is thundering in her veins, a hunting instinct inside her awakened by the chase. But she also feels she has justice on her side. That the young man she picks up from the ground and pushes against the dirty bricks is the criminal here. His whimpering, and the fact that he is young more of a teenager than a man, hardly slows her down. She herself joined Hydra as a child. This one could well be the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you working for?” she threatened through clenched teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cries at her in some language or dialect she doesn’t understand, doesn’t speak a word of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“English?”  she demands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>or Sokovian. Or even Russian.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wanda doesn’t even know what this boy is speaking. It’s all gibberish to her. “Where is the man with the metal arm?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That, at least, sparks something in the boy. He remembers; therefore he must understand her. She can see it, in his mind’s eye. The man, unmistakably James, a black metal arm raised as he holds a boy to his chest. “Yes, him!”  she urges, somewhere between desperate and angry. “Where is he?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of answering, he fights her; pushes away, throws a halfhearted punch she can only just dodge. And Wanda fists a hand through the hapless creature’s shirt and locks him against the wall, her other hand threateningly raised, red streaming around that fisted claw. A threat, a promise. Something from one street-rat to another, something he can understand without words. From the whispering incanting of prayer, she thinks he does.  But, just when she wants to ask, one last time, for this boy to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>answer her fucking question..</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some asshole shows up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A slow whistle. Somehow sultry and dirty, stays her hand. Not that she was actually planning on hurting the boy. Wanda was only trying to scare him, truely. Now that she’s got some idea how young he must be.. God, not even scaring him feels right. She knows, in her heart, that threatening children is wrong. Even if, sometimes, it is ever so tempting. No; is still wrong. Threatening annyong Italian tourists, however. Wanda can see nothing wrong with that. So, that whistle stops her dead, makes her turn and frown at this new-comer with enough annoyance in her stare for every woman ever whistled after. Like a predator honing in on a new, better prey.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because, fuck; she’s a damn superhero. An unstoppable force, and she’s become reduced to threatening boys in alleys and she still doesn’t have any answers. And Wanda is sick of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her warding glare slides off the man. Either unnoticed or unacknowledged. Like he thinks he’s all that, cigarette hanging carelessly from loose lips. And who the fuck even smokes these days? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bella Donna.” he calls, sauntering over with hands in pockets, “Why are you wasting time with this boy?” Blond, lank hair falling into lazy eyes. An open shirt over expensive pants, a gold necklace around his neck, and too many bracelets around bony wrists. She categorizes him either as a small-time drug dealer, or-worse- a pimp.  “Lorenzo can help you better, I’m sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda releases the boy without looking. Carelessly, uncaring. Straighteners, baring her teeth at this intruder. At this </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Because, she knows.. She should behave. No murdering for hero’s. Not even evisceration or a ritual castration. But damn. Wanda is done with doing things the right way, Is done with merci. And in her mind, again, what she wishes for, and what will happen run dangerously close. She knows her eyes flicker; she knows red magic makes her hair dance with power. And truly, what fool would ignore such a warning?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This idiot, apparently doesn’t even notice. The easy smile doesn’t waver, his eyes never leave her face, except to trail down like slime, peeking down her bodice in lurid suggestion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, Wnada must be a fool or, perhaps getting the runaround for days has taken its toll; because she knows this kind of man will provide nothing useful. Will only weedle in her nerve until she snaps without ever being of use. She knows for a deadly witch as herself, the best, safest solution for everyone is just to punch that smug smile off right of his stupid face. But, fool she is, she still asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda juts out her chin, coming in close to convey how unimpressed she is. They must be of the same height, just about. And he doesn’t look so tough. She could take him without even using her powers, probably. And damn, don’t her fists itch with the though. But, she holds herself tight, reigns herself in. “Do you know anything? I am looking for James Barnes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man smiles, half-pursed lips over white teeth flicks ash from his cigarette “Forget about him, doña. He is nothing.” Another deep breath, as he turns away to offer his profile. Throws his head back as he breathes in deeply from that stinking deathstick, then puffs out right in her face.. “Such a pretty signora. Lorenzo is all she needs, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this..”Her power flows from her, like an untamed beast. Her hair wild, fisted hands crackling, rage pulses behind Closed eyelids. THe only thing staying her hand, is she is half-sure he is using her to commit suicide. In a voice half fury, half disbelief, she grinds out: “Are you one </span>
  <em>
    <span>drugs?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo chokes out a shocked laugh; his first move that doesn't stink of testosterone and macho posing. “Don’t a wish,” He brings up his left hand, wiggling it in front of her face, while he uses his liberated right to knock on the back of his left hand  “Don’t think those work right on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lorenzo</span>
  </em>
  <span> no more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda is vaguely aware that her face goes through a series of expressions worthy of a theatrical masterpiece: a slack short-circuit, her brain stalling. unable to parse the information presented. Then, hitting sudden overdrive: a conclusion: that sound, the noise that rapping knuckles against the back of his hand is that of </span>
  <em>
    <span>metal.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And, for a moment, Wanda falters. Before that one obvious answer to what she is seeing derails her into more confusion. Complete bewilderment, as she asks, unsure. “James..?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not today. Today I am Lorenzo.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hehe. I know, this one was another pretty early piece. at least in essence. it's been rewritten a bit but. sorry. I know it's sad. but also funny ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. the fitting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When the paint has dried, James slaps on some of those wash-off tattoos, to disguise the fact that his arm is definitely not made of flesh and tends to reflect light all wrong.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the days before reuniting with Wanda, he spray-paints the entire arm, starting at the fingers until he reaches Okoye’s silver wolf. After a moment of scowling at it, not-James decides to wear short sleeves; and leave it as is. He still hates it; hates what it represents, but it’s there, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>gave it to him. There’s a good chance he’ll ruin it for good, if he paints on paint. No use burning bridges and all that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not-James waits for the paint to dry while studying the arm with an odd fascination. A little make-up mirror lets him study all angles. Shuri’s sleek form mimicking real flesh, all the say to the interlocking original joint, the old glistering silver still visible in the armpit. It’s not silver, of course. This was his original stolen treasure of vibranium. it’s..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should hate it; </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky</span>
  </em>
  <span> hates it, James knows. But, when he lifts the arm, and studies the seam; feels along the writing in his armpit, it makes him happy. He thinks, if Bucky were capable of love at all, he’d feel the same. This is the part the Wakandans refused to redo. The part Shuri promised would very likely </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruin</span>
  </em>
  <span> him if they tried to take it out. The core part of him, that runs all the way into his spine. And Wakanda had taken that part and put their fucking autographs on it. Like peeing all over Hydra’s little hydrant. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny,</span>
  </em>
  <span> right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the paint has dried, James slaps on some of those wash-off tattoos, to disguise the fact that his arm is </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely not made of flesh</span>
  </em>
  <span> and tends to reflect light all wrong. Next, he changes into a short-sleeved buttoned shirt, making doubly sure his wolf is hidden under the snug hem of the sleeve. And so he with great relief dumps both his denim jacket and the one black glove he’d been forced to wear since leaving Wakanda. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The old arm only generated heat while in motion, and this new version mimics his body temperature at all times, but still, Africa midland in a jacket had not only been uncomfortably hot but also really, really awkward. It’s damn hard to blend in, when any of the few European around  at least have the presence of mind to wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Putting his wrists together, James notes there’s already a distinct difference in thickness between the two arms. But, another few pages into his manual he finds a way to actually recalibrate the weight, draining water pockets Shuri must have added for perfect weight distribution. Draining everything leaves only a small difference, hardly noticeable. James is.. pleased. But he is also.. he thinks he’s finally realized who he is. The face staring back at him from the old, broken mirror in the bathroom is familiar; he recognizes that man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo di Merdi was a bit of an asshole, really. Something from the eighties that doesn’t really translate right to these modern times. Blond hair to his ears and a nervous tick that used to mean too much cocaine, but might translate to some party drug or other now. James isn't too sure. The Armani suit-pants will still work: new but obviously not tailor-fitted. A few gold necklaces and chains; just shy of too much. And a cheap short-sleeve shirt, hanging open to expose sun-touched skin. That last part, he has to work for; to re-acquire. But James locates a room in his derelict building without boarding on the glassless windows, right in the full midday sun, and within a few hours he’s set. Keeping that sun-kissed touch will be a problem he knows, but it will be worth it. Will make him stand out just a little less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That afternoon; the afternoon of the fifth day, he finally gave in; Lorenzo was never good at patience. So, why learn now? Rashness was one of his more enjoyable traits, honestly. He has a letter to post and a promise to collect on. Not both at once, of course. But, the letter can go in the mail today. The short walk should not ruin his disguise as long as he strolls at a leisurely pace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He checks himself one last time in the cracked mirror. He’s replaced the wrist-watch with some trendy i-phone thing swiped off another fool tourist. Apparently he can keep that in hand at all times and blend all the better for it. It’s a bit of a nuisance; his strong left continuously occupied, as his right will have a cigarette by default. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He,. Lorenzo…? He’s not getting rid of the cigarette. Even if it is archaic in these times. It just feels good, alright? Something to do. Will keep his real hand occupied, while the left is hidden in plain sight, thanks to that ever-present phone. That, together with his paint job and the tattoo should give him enough cover. Even if it wouldn’t pass more than a cursory glance; he really should ask Shuri for something better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just because he has to keep in touch every few days doesn’t mean he actually needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span> to her. To Shuri.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, he’s being a little prick. Bu Lorenzo thought that much was already established. He is petty and childish, and a prick besides. Fuck ‘m all if they think he gives a damn. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After posting his ominously courteous letter to Ivach, he spends the rest of the afternoon sightseeing, taking actual pictures with his new i-phone; hacked and de-simmed. Savely connected to the Kimoyo beads hidden within gold bracelets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>South-Africa had been Hydra’s foothold in Africa once; the one country they bothered to keep a presence in. But, with the change of rulers, they seem to have given up. Lorenzo tracks the maps in his head, visits all the old safehouses and hot-spots of Johannesburg. All he finds are abandoned and derelict; stripped of supplies and empty. None of the old contacts are out on the streets, though James realises the faces he remembers must be over twenty years older now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, he catches on to </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>trail.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda, amazing him quite frankly, has managed to f</span>
  <em>
    <span>ollow him here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And, well. Being the childish asshole he is, he follows after her, follows her as she trudges through the city, asking and searching after him. He follows her all the way to her hotel, before returning home. Returns the following day, only taking a break around siesta to work on his sun-burn - which is he incapable of acquiring, by the way. All he can hope for is that golden brown. Never anything close to red, his skin not even sensitive to the touch after hours of unprotected midday sun. Well; whatever. He can’t be missing out on much with that...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo sits right across from her when she eats her dinner, sipping an espresso as he watches her eat her meal: a terrible hamburger, at a terrible fast-food joint that Lorenzo will not name. Yet, she didn’t recognise him. So, for shits and giggles, he follows her and photographs her progress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third day is the day he would reunite with Ivach, and Lorenzo is a little surprised to find the thought upsets him. He shouldn’t be; be surprised that is. Lorenzo is one for sudden outburst. Callous towards others, yet demanding when considering his own needs. And Ivach, he feels, has </span>
  <em>
    <span>wronged</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seriously, the least Ivach could have done was </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologise</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him.. To James.. Well, this is confusing. But, they are still the same, are they not? And he was still the same when Ivach worked on him. Worked first with the Russians, and then came with him to fucking America. And if he’d been a little cunt back home, he’d only become an asshole with immigrating, hadn’t he? Sometimes half-drunk, sometimes sleep deprived. Sometimes not even with those excuses. Just pulling and prying and..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo sits there, steaming somewhere to Wanda’s side. Unnoticed, ignored. Invisible, as </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even when he’d been in fucking agony, he’d never even giveni it a thought, had he? Never even a pat on the back for holding still and not screaming and..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, in the end he smacks the espresso off the table when the waiter walks by, spilling the cooled coffee all over the table and a few drops down his lap. The waiter, predictably, interprets the set-up as his fault, and starts apologising profusely, offering his napkin..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, don’t sweat it.” Lorenzo tells the man when he’s handed a napkin. “At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As opposed to</span>
  <em>
    <span> some other fucks,</span>
  </em>
  <span> who.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, hey? Letting Ivach simmer for a while was good right? Lorenzo should focus on the good; that’s what </span>
  <em>
    <span>James</span>
  </em>
  <span> would have done.. And he.. He should still endeavour to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> than just Lorenzo. Focus on the good. Even if Lorenzo is more the damaged honor drive-by with a machine gun type. No; Lorenzo can be good. Lorenzo likes parties. And fun. And girls. Yes. girls like Wanda are definitely his type.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, Lorenzo sits at a terras sipping espresso and watches Wanda flounder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a sudden hidden beauty in her whole goth get up. And, hot temperatures have done their best to reveal that fair elegance. Long dresses are replaced by sensible hiking boots and heavy shoes. And, despite the lack of elevation, the woman has some legs on her. Her face, too, a thing of fine beauty. Though too much black eyeliner. Really. She should go for a little color. And maybe some cleavage. Lorenzo would bet his good right arm she’s got a killer cleavage hidden under that baggy shirt.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, more important according to James’s constant little voice: she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried </span>
  </em>
  <span>over him. That at least gives Lorenzo a warm feeling. James and Wanda may not have gotten along, but his sudden disappearance hasn’t left her untouched. Wanda turns more agitated, obviously distressed, as she chugs away at her crime-against-coffee: Some sweet long-drink with frothed milk and sugar and only a passing acquaintance with any single coffee bean. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, Lorenzo will admit he feels an uncomfortable pang at making her worry. Is it even safe, to poke a witch, like one would poke a hornet’s nest? Will she forgive him, later? Or is Wanda the type to hold a grudge for such a harmless, innocent prank? Perhaps.. Perhaps it would be best to end the ruse.. Lorenzo thinks he will. Just as soon as the business with Ivach is handled. Yes; he will tell her, drop her at the meeting point with the Rogues at least. He should not just disappear on her. Just for following him, she deserves some kudos points, right? That’s some real dedication there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, then out of nothing Wanda jumps up and runs after some kid. And that kid.. It’s one of those street urchins isn’t it? Damn, he already spooked those boys bad enough. Not that Lorenzo should care, but.. He’s not here to cause a scene. And neither should Wanda. So, he curses; runs after her. Whatever she figured, probably due to her witch's powers.. he has to stop her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, Lorenzo </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop her. Actually comes right out and tells her who he is. With how worried she’d been, Lorenzo would have expected a little more relief at finding him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James…?” She offers in a voice, cracked and unsure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Lorenzo sighs heavily, leads the lady back to their terrace like a perfect gentleman. Like exactly what Wanda needed: someone to speak to, someone fun. And yet, Lorenzo has a feeling she will be more than a little difficult. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James..?” Still in that broken, confused tone, “how can you be </span>
  <em>
    <span>smaller..?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. frappuccino</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lorenzo is perfect for Wanda...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lorenzo leads Wanda back to the plaza. Selects them a better, different terras. One not affiliated with those dreadful green-star assholes that seem to believe any mediocre coffee can be saved simply by adding copious amounts of sirop, and scoots back a chair for her, like the perfect gentleman he can be.</p>
<p>Wanda falls down into the chair, still too off balance to even object to the gesture. Or, perhaps in shock is more accurate. She’s not even coping. White as a sheet, eyes roving over his form several times. Entirely too much confused blinking; so much it’s near uncomfortable. Lorenzo  sits down opposite to her with a wafe to the waiter, then orders her a<em> frappuccino. </em></p>
<p>Because if you must go for sweet, one should at least do it right. For himself he orders a new espresso, and is rewarded with something far superior from what he had been stuck with before. Lorenzo sits back, breathes in the aroma as he brings the cup to his mouth. Now, this is worth it. This is coffee. A quick france at Wanda sadly shows she hasn’t even started on hers. “Try your drink, please? Signora?” </p>
<p>Finally, she frowns, mouth working like a fish caught out of water.. A somewhat unbecoming gesture, ruining the coy beauty of her features. “How..? How can you be smaller?”</p>
<p>“It’s just a little trick. Lorenzo stoops a bit, in the knees.” He promises with an overemphasized wave of the hand, an animated smirk. It’s the Italian way to speak. The added wink and angled body, offering her a good view of his chest is all <em> Lorenzo. </em> Because he’s an equal opportunity guy. And Wanda may frown back at him, may turn her lips down like she’s upset. But, he knows better. He <em> knows </em> she likes it..</p>
<p>“No, no. but you are less <em> wide, </em> too.” Wanda sits back, doesn’t touch her frappuccino. “James, how can you be,.. How can you be <em> smaller. </em>.?”</p>
<p>Lorenzo sighs. He had known she’d be difficult. Yet, perhaps he had not realised Wanda would be <em> this </em> difficult. Still stuck on that small fact. A detail, in the scheme of things. No matter. It’s not a problem. Not an obstacle Lorenzo would not overcome. The end gains will only be worth more, in the end. </p>
<p>“It is my <em> superpower. </em>” Lorenzo shrugs; makes eye contact and holds it longer than is warranted; longer than needed; lips turning up, flashing teeth in a smug grin. It works, she grows uncomfortable sooner than he. Turns away, eyes down, and reaches for her frappuccino. Though again, she doesn’t drink. Not yet. Only plays with the straw. Oh, yes, a tough nut to crack. </p>
<p>Well; perhaps the eyes is a touch too much. Perhaps he should go slow again. Always a problem; alway he comes in too hard, whomever he is.. It’s his age, he thinks. He knows he used to be the slow one..? Well, there's a pair of sunglasses in his front pocket, and he goes for them; opens them with a flourish and slides them squarely over his eyes. Something to hide his radiance with. Because Lorenzo can be a bit too bright. </p>
<p>And, from the other side, shielding his eyes if not unpleasant; at least stops that annoying front lock of hair poking into his eyes. “<em> One </em> of my superpowers. Hard work, but worth it, yes?”</p>
<p>Lorenzo <em> hopes </em> it was worth it. It’s a question he’s been asking himself for a while now; what would Wanda even <em> want </em> of him? They have a limited time left together, sure. If he leaves her, as he had half-intended. If he leaves her in the care of the other Avengers.. But.. Is Lorenzo-James ready to go on his journey <em> alone? </em> Is he <em> ready </em>to be alone?</p>
<p>The Winter Soldier hadn’t been on his own for such a long time. Not even when he’d hidden in Bucharest, his Pestúnka had never been more than a phone call away. Even if she had refused to come with him..</p>
<p>And just look at the mess, already trailing Lorenzo? A few days left to his own devices and he’s already done two of his top-ten no-no’ s: threatening kids and making contact with Hydra. Not a good starting point; not to mention.. No, he doesn’t want to be on his own. Being a ghost is overrated. Yeah.. you know what? Natasha can have that title.</p>
<p>And <em> choke </em> on it. </p>
<p>Yet that still leaves Lorenzo with a problem. James had <em> tried </em> to connect with Wanda. But, he’d failed spectacularly. And that was part due to their shared history, yes. But James has held a good rapport with people far worse in the past. James really <em> had </em> wanted to connect with Wanda. But, he couldn’t. He had been too quiet, too depressed. Too much hung up on Shuri and unable to move on.</p>
<p>Lorenzo though? Lorenzo seems right up Wanda’s alley. Talkative. Positive life-views. Or, the visible approximation of it. Fun; <em> actual </em> fun. Lorenzo always made sure <em> everyone </em> had a good time. Even if he had to spike their drinks to do it. </p>
<p>And yet, Wanda doesn’t seem taken with the idea at all. Doesn’t seem taken with the idea of <em> Lorenzo </em>. “You lost.. that much bulk in a week?” </p>
<p>No, if anything, Lorenzo’s very existence is upsetting her. She sits forward, abandons her frappuccino to smack her hand flat on the table. “That<em> cannot </em> be healthy.”  </p>
<p>“Wanda, ma Bella. Please,” because, fine, Lorenzo can play this game. Hell, he practically invented it. Sits forwards as well, one metal elbow to the table. The other hand flicks the sunglasses down, searching that eye contact again over the rim of the dark glasses. Close proximity, so he can feel her breath huff into his face. “This is <em> nothing </em>. Child’s play. Come, let’s move past this. Drink your drink. It is good. I promise.” </p>
<p>Because he <em> has </em> done worse; far, far worse. Or better. Miss Kreuzenger; the seventy-seven year old widow he’d played for two fucking weeks while on a luxory cruise-ship, tables full of fine catering and wares that he couldn’t touch; was afraid to look at. Or that grand plan; the exact opposite. When Lukin had had the dumb-ass idea that his Winter Soldier could fit in with the fat American tourists if he’d just gain a hundred pounds. </p>
<p>No; that had not been better. That had been a debacle. They’d never even dreamed up a name for that character. As James worked off that extra fat back into muscle just by getting on their damned scales.. Anyway, the least Wanda could do was appreciate his effort. “Maybe you can do your part and call Lorenzo <em> Lorenzo </em>?”</p>
<p>“I don't like this. Are you..?” Wanda twitches, eyes roaming. Going over the square in suspicion. Back to him, whispering in an urgent, worried manner. How James could weep, for a whole generation of operatives trained this poorly in subterfuge. ”Are you doing this because of <em> Hydra? </em> Are they here?”</p>
<p>Now, this is where Lorenzo should probably console her. Accost her worries and explain that Hydra had taken the kind of hit that will take them years to recover from. That it would take at least a decade, before their numbers had risen enough to cause any decent mayhem. Possibly two before they’d try something like take down the Red Witch. Same with him, likely, with the safeguards Shuri had built him. No; there is no imminent danger. Not here, certainly not.. “Why do you ask?”</p>
<p>Because this, this right here. This is the interesting part, to him. How does Wanda feel about her previous.. let us call them employers? Does she <em> hate </em> them? <em> Fear </em> them? Or, does she feel some twisted loyalty to them still?</p>
<p>Wanda moves her head, like she wants to shake it ‘no’; thinks better of it. Reaches out; finally takes that frappuccino in her hands and pulls it close. Then sighs, as she frowns down on her drink. “This is so weird. You are kind of scaring me. Just tell me there’s a good reason you’re doing this.” </p>
<p>Oh. “Oh <em> yes, </em> signora. I have the <em> best </em> reason.” A soft smile doesn’t really belong on Lorenzo’s face. But, he enlists his closest one. He reaches out, carefully and puts his real hand on the back of her left. Where she vice-grips her longdrink glass. Maybe she’s secretly looking into his mind right now? Can she see what he thinks? If he imagines reaching down under the table  and pushing his hand into her pants. Will she know? Or how about he gets up, walks around and puts his hands behind her while she’s still seated. Thrust the metal hand in from behind? Push metal all the way down past her tailbone, probably slick with sweat from CapeTown’s humid conditions, then further down and stick his middle finger right up her..</p>
<p>“And stop thinking lurid thoughts.” </p>
<p>“Ha, see!” Lorenzo crows in victory. “I <em> knew </em> it! You’re looking into my mind, signora! I knew you were peeking.” he winks at her, bringing his espresso to his mouth. “Hard to resist, yes?” </p>
<p>“Did not!” Wanda denies, sounding just a little unsure. “You were just giving me that creep look. I can tell, you know! Any woman could.” </p>
<p>Loranzo blinks, thinking that over. It’s true that she’d never noticed before, when he’d been James. But..“Lorenzo always has that creep look. The lady is confusing. You want to talk, now I talk. And yet you are unhappy..” </p>
<p>“I wanted to talk with<em> James. </em> With <em> you </em> . Not this.. This made-up person.” Wanda picks at her untouched drink, obviously struggling. Frustrated. Lorenzo thinks she’s acting like a spoiled brat. She wanted conversation, he’s delivering. She wanted someone with a grin and a joke. Well, Lorenzo is <em> perfect </em>. “qual è il problema?” </p>
<p>“<em> That </em> is! <em> This! </em> I don’t even <em> speak </em> Italian, please.” Wanda grunts, throwing her hands up as she shakes her head. “And this, how you <em> changed. </em> That’s not normal. That <em> cannot </em>be healthy.”  </p>
<p>Lorenzo grunts, breaks character for that much; acknowledges that Lorenzo might not connect well, in that regard. That is unfortunate. But, James can adjust; asks, in perfect Sokovian: <em> “You want to speak your own language?” </em> </p>
<p>It.. <em> does </em> have an effect. Wanda freezes, eyes wide. Still, for a moment too long. Finally, she speaks, in a cool, measured tone. “ <em> Don’t. </em> Please don’t do that.” He.. Lorenzo thinks he might have hurt her; might be bringing up bad memories, by speaking her own tongue. That is.. sad, really. Still, if that’s what she wants. “The lady requests, we deliver.” Lorenzo just leaves the hint of Italian accent for that. Perhaps that is what she’ll prefer.</p>
<p>Or.. perhaps not. Wanda has closed off; arms crossed as she looks off to the side. “Why are you even <em> acting </em> like this? I <em> hate </em> slick guys.” </p>
<p>Anger.. Oh; that is <em> interesting. </em> Also, she is full of shit. This crush of hers, that she described? The one from space? Oh, she may not know much, may not even have told him all. But Lorenzo can tell when a man is sleek like an eel. And that guy? A complete <em> snake. </em> Yet, Lorenzo can see Wanda has already fallen head over heels with that <em> asshole.  </em></p>
<p>But better not bring him up. She’ll only sigh and yearn. Compare Lorenzo to this man-god and find Lorenzo lacking. No; Lorenzo is<em> smarter </em> than that. Besides, “now perhaps the lady is untruthful. I hear for a fact your brother was.. pretty slick.” Lorenzo grins crookedly with that, stirring his espresso with a spoon. There’s no milk, no sugar. So, it’s mostly for effect. A small little sip, and he thinks he’s found a way into her; into her heart..</p>
<p>“Who even <em> told </em> you that.” Rage, white hot. Wanda drops her arms to the table, fists banging, hard enough to set their cups shaking. Her fingers flex with some impotent anger, and there’s -yes- a distinct sudden red cast to her eyes. “Oh-my-god,.” a blink, as she shifts her weight forward, prodding. “You got that from <em> Hydra?”  </em></p>
<p>Ah yes; rage. The only sure way into a woman’s heart. Sure, some might balk from this, but not Lorenzo. Lorenzo covets that rage, needs it like water. To him, there is nothing more beautiful than a woman burning. And Wanda? She burns for real; <em> visibly. </em>Yes; beyond anything else, this is why Lorenzo suits her. Lorenzo would bask in that heat. Would put embers to her fire and stoke her up high.</p>
<p>But, sometimes such fire will scold even the surest hands. “Were you gossiping<em> with Hydra? </em>”</p>
<p>Lorenzo winces, because that. That is a low blow. He had not expected that. “No I..” he just <em> heard </em> things. No one <em> talked </em> to him. Ever. </p>
<p>She.. stops. Stalls, shocked at her own words. Blinks down at her drink, and whispers a near-unaudiable “sorry.” Which is, of course nearly as upsetting. Because there’s only one reason for her to stop. Only one reason she’d feel guilt over bringing this up. And yes, Lorenzo is perfectly aware Hydra told the new recruits he was mute.. </p>
<p><em> Santa Maria, who’s the gossiper now? </em> Lorenzo thinks, but <em> does not say. </em> Smiles, instead. “Did they treat you well? Your <em> Masters? </em>”</p>
<p>“ I.. It’s. It’s not the same.” Wanda is back paddling; refusing to even take his bait. Like he’s entitled to that free shot. Like this experience they share, this <em> pain </em> is not hers as well as his. Like she is not entitled to it.  “I chose to work for them. They offered me a chance to take revenge on Stark and I took it. I was a fool.. I was wrong.” </p>
<p><em> Really? </em> </p>
<p>Oh. oh,<em> yes. </em> There’s the rage. Lorenzo can see it. There is the grief. And there, over it all, <em> guilt </em> . Unneeded; unwarranted. Like she doesn’t know. Doesn’t understand. Oh, it offers Lorenzo a way in. A path, into her heart. <em> This </em> is what Lorenzo can give her.</p>
<p>“I have something to show you.” Lorenzo stands, drops some bills on the table. “Finish your frappuccino.”</p>
<p>She doesn't; hardly gets halfway. Leaves at least an inch down in her glass. Because kids these days are <em> spoiled rotten </em>.</p>
<p>Lorenzo tips her glass back into his own throat and leads the way.</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. friendly intel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He shimmies the lock to the apartment complex, and gives Wanda a finger to the mouth for silence —circumventing, for now, the million questions she likely has. Questions Lorenzo isn’t about to answer because she will figure it out herself. The lock upstairs,  to the apartment on the fourth, top floor, is no harder than the first one. He opens it silently, and lets out a disappointed -if fake- huff at the sight that greets him:</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you guys are not going to believe this!! I got this chapter beta read!! so much yay!<br/>so, special thanks to personaljunkdrawer!! for your wonderfull work on this.<br/>and, to my lovely readers, I hope this finds you well; please enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He shimmies the lock to the apartment complex, and gives Wanda a finger to the mouth for silence —circumventing, for now, the million questions she likely has. Questions Lorenzo isn’t about to answer because she will figure it out herself. The lock upstairs,  to the apartment on the fourth, top floor, is no harder than the first one. He opens it silently, and lets out a disappointed -if fake- huff at the sight that greets him:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach, frozen on his knees, down in front of his hall closet, a heavy trunk half-way filled with poorly folded clothes and other belongings. Eyes wide, over the shoulder as he is caught in the act, staring at Lorenzo in his doorframe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo makes a sound he hopes communicates his utter disappointment —Ivach thinks he can run from the Winter Soldier? Ivach can’t even manage his own tax-evasion. Needs a Hydra affiliate for that,  who he visits once a year. He grabs Ivach by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him towards the living room, then traverses mediocre yet spacious quarters. The window next to the entryway is open, letting in a refreshing breath. But when Wanda follows them into the house’s main room, she closes the door behind them, and that nice breeze lulls to a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanda.” At the far wall, Lorenzo turns, his metal arm over the old man’s back; gropin sweaty, stupid hawaiian shirt. Vibranium forearm digging into the man’s flabby biceps.  “This is my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivach Trokchov. We go </span>
  <em>
    <span>way back</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach throws Lorenzo a bewildered look, scanning him in confusion. Lorenzo, only happy to oblige, takes off his sunglasses and squeezes the man just a little harder with his naked, metal arm: the vibranium flush against the man’s skin. Painted a decent flesh color, sure, but an easy tell as to Lorenzo’s identity; as good as a positive ID.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach blinks at him once more, then turns, jaw falling down as he finally gets his first look at Wanda. “Oh, oh lord! Is it you?” Ivach shakes visibly, and Lorenzo can feel Ivach’s heart stutter; nearly giving in. “The Red Witch! Are you controlling him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ivach...” If there’s James in that voice, if there’s a little pain; if Lorenzo near-pleads with the man; Who could blame him? “Ivach, really? You do not recognise me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach blinks at him again, tries to pull back; realises, at least, that this will be impossible, Lorenzo’s strong left made of literally unmovable vibranium, turns his gaze back on Wanda, eyes pleading. “I know the Witch. Miss Maximov? The Winter Soldier? Is he yours? Can you call him off, please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Wanda huffs, shocked, then catches herself. The surprise in her voice turning mildly amused. “Dear me. I’m not sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>can control him,” -and in that moment, Lorenzo really could grow to love her- “possibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>never again.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivach near-collapses; and Lorenzo helps the old bastard to his chair; his black, beautiful massage chair, that looks impossibly big around him now. Lorenzo frowns down at the mess of a man, then looks over to Wanda. Tilts his head slightly, knocking himself on the back of his metal, painted hand. Wanda gives him a smug grin back. It says: </span>
  <em>
    <span>really? I had a hard time realising who you were; what do you expect from this second-rate crony? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda makes a disturbingly valid point. Ivach had never been a bright man, and age hasn’t improved him at all. No, his eyes are dull, as Trokchov sits in that chair, mumbling to himself; almost too soft for even Lorenzo’s enhanced hearing. “Oh. Oh no. Oh dear god...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Growing religious with old age, Ivach?” Is that Bucky? Oh yes; likely. Yet Lorenzo cannot help but agree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trokchov trails off, swallows thickly as Lorenzo slides a hand onto his shoulder, squeezes. Turns and  stands next to Ivach and makes a presenting gesture, grinning at Wanda. “Yes, this guy. Kept me up and running for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Then, in a moment of divine inspiration, James gives the old, balding head a quick peck. “Practically a parent to me… If, you know, your parents are assholes that only notice you when you’re bothering them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who...? Who are you?” Ivack wimpers, head swinging towards Lorenzo then back to Wanda, dismissing him like an unimportant minion. It would be funny, if it wasn't so sad. “Look, Miss Maximov! I got the location. That nurse is back in her own country. Back in Slovakia. But, the moment you do anything they’ll know the info came from me. And the Soldat...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo squeezes Ivach’s shoulder a little harder, with his metal hand; the left. The one that should be an easy tell. And Ivach trails away with a groan, yet still fails to make the connection. His eyes go up imploringly, only a moment his way, then to Wanda, fingers shooting up in a useless effort to pry that metal claw from his shoulder. No... Ivach does not have the mental capability to recognise him. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> been stupid, but “Oh, come on Ivach; I’ve known you your whole adult life. Try and use that non-existent imagination of yours...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes blinking tears, he gives up on Wanda only when she crosses her arms; looks away. Only when everything in her body language betrays she will not come to his aid. Still, when he looks up, imploringly at Lorenzo, there is no hint of recognition in those dull grey eyes. “I’m sorry. Who are you...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James stares the man in the eyes for another few long seconds. There’s absolutely no recognition there. Why is he even surprised? Ivach might have spent over three decades with his tools inside the Winter Soldier’s arm. Might have ordered him to stretch this way or turn the arm so. But, had they ever even had a conversation? Of course not. Ivach had never enjoyed too much talk: it’d been the one thing James could like about the man, he’d thought: he’d never talked over him. Closing his eyes, Lorenzo sighs, pats the abused shoulder and lets go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thank you, Ivach, we can’t thank you enough. Why, you’ve already done so much for us both. I can hardly believe you’re willing to do more.“ Lorenzo turns, eyes on Wanda, “Did you know Wanda? Without this guy, you would never have happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda rubs at her arms, like she’s cold, a frown on her face, Eyes tracking from him, to Ivach and back; inviting him to elaborate. Bucky explains, grinning wickedly. “You see this guy, when he wasn’t fixing my arm; this guy laid all the groundwork. Started out on monkeys, I bet, then Straight to the Red Room; to the great free sector testing labs. Would have fit right in at the old war camps too.. But, well, born too late by at least a decade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you...?” Wanda starts, just as Ivach shakily raises to his feet. “Now wait a minute,” because Wanda may not understand, but it turns out Ivach. Ivach knows better after all... “I never did anything illegal. I worked for the Russian government, and later for perfectly legal businesses.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that the beauty of it?” Lorenzo keeps his eyes on Wanda; wicked grin turning just a shade lewd. It’s Bucky’s hand that grabs Ivach, shoves him down back into his chair so hard the man near crumples, one hand on his shoulder, his body angling away, probably due to a sprained back. “It’s always perfectly legal. All those little orphans used in the Red Room. All the tests on girls in try-outs for gymnasts or the olympics? Ah, but the gymnasts mostly survived, at least. Natasha is the only spiderling left... Left of decades of girls...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda frowns, still unconvinced. “...What has this got to do with me...?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ Don’t you see? She is like an older sister to you. A few decades before, sure. A different test, a different set-up. But, it’s all in one straight line. Why, I remember Ivach, there was once this try-out, where you were sowing wiring right into their skin. Do you even remember that, Ivach?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ That was...” Ivach wheezes, folded in on himself, legs drawn up, head somewhere down an armrest, “...that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> project. And it was called off early, besides. I only did as I was told...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo grunts, but doesn’t spare the old creature more than a pitying glance. “Do you see, Wanda? You may not have been treated too badly, but... Do you even remember before their experiments started to bear fruit? Do you remember the others? Because there </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> others, I assure you, even if you’ve never seen them. Do you remember how little they valued you, before you became special...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo steps closer, pulled by the heat of her; though Wanda still looks cold, eyes near-glassy and turned away, Posture closed and small. “If you  could create the goose that lays golden eggs, but you would need to murder a thousand baby geese to get it: torture them, Experiment; Do you think that would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair</span>
  </em>
  <span> to any of those goslings?” Lorenzo takes another step, holds; close to the center of the room. Studies her, waits for that slight shake of the head. The power, still contained within, somewhere under the surface of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps to the side, turns, in front of the open window; taking a deep breath of fresh air, before she centers herself, arms akimbo as she challenges him. “Why are you telling me this?” It is not a question. It is an accusation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Lorenzo, he parries, unworried. “Because this man? He owes you more than he owes me. You were their golden goose, Wanda. Your brother? All the other kids? All the ones in facilities you never knew about, all the ones before you? How many do you think there were, before they succeeded? They </span>
  <em>
    <span>paid</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man behind them starts wailing in earnest now. “What? Please! Sir, I... Miss Maximov, I only ever did low level work. I only did what I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>told.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nothing of it was ever my idea..” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gives a short nod, feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous, a graceful wave: “ You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda stares, shocked; but there’s a connection; a recognition, and the disgust is as much directed at Lorenzo as at Ivach. Bucky grabs onto it. “We are all just </span>
  <em>
    <span>cattle </span>
  </em>
  <span>to them, Wanda. Disposable. Cheap. You blame yourself, but they framed your world. They made you this way. Your brother is dead because of them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to kill him.” Wanda states it. Doesn’t question. She is... not stupid, after all. Yet, there’s a turn in her tone, a quirk to her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo asks, out of curtery, because he already knows the answer. “Do you want him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whimpering behind them turns to quivering relief. And Lorenzo can only shake his head at her. She, of course; just turns sure. “He is retired. No longer a danger to anyone. We should just forget about him.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo sighs, takes his time to look out of that open window too, closes his eyes a moment. He could argue that Ivach is retired exactly because he’s been such a great boon. That his existence itself is lending credit to torturing children. That he would jump at the opportunity to take all the street urchins in this city apart. One would hardly need to pay him, beyond a flute of champagne and a pat on the back. But, well... “How grand of you.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo turns, trying for a smile as he looks down at the creature, but all he can manage is a snarl. “Do you hear that? The Red Witch has granted you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mercy.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he walks past Wanda, and holds the door open for her with a bow and a wave. “In that case, we are done here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda looks at him oddly, like she wants to question that; squints her eyes and purses her lips. But after another short moment, she seems to think better of it; walks out and down the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” Ivack whimpers, drawing himself in like a fetus as soon as Wanda is out of hearing range. “Please, I cannot take this. My heart...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet that heart cannot fail Ivach, because James knows very well that Ichav Trokchov never had a heart. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Buck picks up the kitchen step-up ladder and places it under the window. “If you don’t like it, there’s the exit. See? Exit. Choice.” James really did consider himself pretty fucking forgiving for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he gives Trokchov that one last chance; that one last  opportunity to say something. Anything. Anything like. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t know,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘You never said anything.’</span>
  </em>
  <span> Or at least, at the very least: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I am sorry.’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s never going to happen, is it? Ivach is never going to recognise him, because the Soldier was never even human to him. And even if he did, by some miracle recognise him, Ivach would never be sorry in any meaningful way. “Hey, guess what Ivach? The Soldat and Wanda are going to head over to Slovakia, and tear every base they can find apart. But he’ll be sure to leave a few survivors. And tell them you’re the one that tattled. And if, by some miracle of honor amongst monsters, they do not flay you alive for that...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Winter Soldier says you better not see him again..” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. potjiekos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>time to take that lady out for dinner.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>special thank to my beta personaljunkdrawer!! yay!</p><p>TW: off-screen death</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lorenzo steps into the street, taking a deep breath of refreshing fumes and asphalt. The street in front of Ivach’s building has turned into a traffic jam, people of all kinds trying to return home for the evening. The light is turning a low gold, the facade of buildings on the far side of the road throwing their shadows, silhouettes landing on the ground floor, for now. An odd hodgepodge of styles ranging from statistique French-style oversized stone to modern steel, interspersed with the stepped frontals of Dutch canal houses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Head still upturned, Lorenzo returns his sunglasses to their perch at the end of his nose, shoves his vibranium hand down the front pocket of his suit pants, and turns to Wanda with a grin. She looks a little tense, standing on this street-corner, and of course Lorenzo knows better than to let a lady stand out alone. But, well...Yeah, whatever; it’s not like there’s anything more dangerous out here than the Red Witch herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever had potjiekos? I know a great place, right up the next alley.” Lorenzo indicates, putting a lazy arm to her back as he steers. “Local delicacy. You’ll love it. It is like stew.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda gives him a careful frown, rubbing her arms, but goes with very little struggle. “What was that about, James...?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo,” Lorenzo cuts in, smoothly, flashing teeth in his smile. He does step up their speed just a bit. Then decides, when they turn into another side-street, that being out of visual range of the building is good enough for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little restaurant is still there, which might be amazing; though he checked and it’s changed owners twice since his last visit. It has ratings now though. Online. And those imply that the new owner has either kept the old chef or hired a new, even better one. Lo and behold, even the outside terrace is still there, looking nearly the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” he adds, more as an invitation to the chair he holds for her -a rickety black metal thing-, then a plea towards his name.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, gives him an enquiring frown, then resolutely turns to the far side of the table and sits down there. Rude of her, really. Oh well. He sits himself down just as easily, orders the Potjiekos special with a local red, and grins at her increasing scrutiny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only when the waiter is well beyond earshot does Wanda speak up. “...you didn’t actually expect me to...” she flounders, obviously disgusted. Which, kind of weird? She was all for murder when she was on the bad guy team. Yet, now that she can go for the ones that actually have it coming...? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, of course not,” Lorenzo assures her, “or, at least, I hoped not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sound; something he’s sure is beyond Wanda’s hearing. Like beating a steak; flesh meeting concrete. The answering scream Wanda</span>
  <em>
    <span> does </span>
  </em>
  <span>hear; he can tell by the way her head turns. Bucky, hungrily, imagines the scene: Ivach, body still in one piece, unbroken skin around smashed organs and broken bones. He’ll look nearly okay, until the try to peel him off the sidewalk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Lorenzo comments, not even tamping down his wide grin, spirits high as he begs her attention, “it’s turned out for the best; I’m sure.” The thing he </span>
  <em>
    <span>achingly</span>
  </em>
  <span> needs to know however? “Does this mean you’ve given up on the business of revenge?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On Hydra? Well, they are despicable of course...” She trails off, as the food arrives. One pot dish, which the waiter places in front of Wanda at Lorenzo’s gesture. The two glasses and bottle of wine he happily accepts. He holds his breath a moment, then hears the sirens of an ambulance closing in from the distance and pops the cork without even bothering to pretend it’s an effort. He pours them both a glass, in celebration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels kind of good. Lorenzo </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>knows he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t celebrate... But, well, Lorenzo never really had a problem with doing things </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> way. Oh, he still understands why it isn’t smart. He just doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>... It’s kind of fun; the thought of Ivach’s entrails painting the pavement. Which is, of course, again, why he’ll need Wanda to come with him. If only to keep fun and madness clearly separated. “I mean, you were thirsting for Stark’s blood? Why not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hydra...?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“NO! I don’t want that anymore. I told you. I was wrong, I...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo blinks at her interruption, that now trails into nothing. Well it should, he thinks as he shakes his head at her. He’s explained well enough, he’d thought? That </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hydra</span>
  </em>
  <span> is responsible for her own suffering, for her brother’s death. For so much more... Does she need it explained further?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, now Wanda is staring at him, so he prompts her, best he can, glass raised and expression overeager interest. Lorenzo really does need to understand this. Also, he really needs Wanda speaking; thinking. Talking over the sounds of sirens closing in, passing them just a little too close. Not thinking of why an ambulance would be needed at the place they had just departed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda flounders under the scrutiny, huffs; but in the end she blinks up and offers. “Stark was wrong, but he recognized that and is trying to do better. Hydra is different. They embrace evil; are proud of it. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be stopped. But getting angry will just let them </span>
  <em>
    <span>use</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. I.. I will not be tricked like that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, imagine that. Personal growth. Though Lorenzo nearly asks after her beau at that. The one from her dreams. How would she know if </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t tricking her as well? Ah, but then, if she starts worrying… Well, Lorenzo can be a bit of a trickster himself. Though, he doesn’t think this counts tricking the witch. Wanda, of course, might feel differently. But it's all in her best interest. Or at least his, which amounts in the same thing. Possibly.</span>
</p><p><span>It is a sad thing perhaps; the one thing the Red Witch was known for was vengeance; the one thing whispered amongst Hydra personnel high and low: ‘</span><em><span>don’t cross that bitch!</span></em> <em><span>She will come for you!</span></em><span> And she had: for Stark. For the Avengers. And while Lorenzo is all about personal growth, this new development leaves him with a problem. Because he </span><b>will</b><span> get his Pestúnka. Going to get her alone however might not be the best idea. </span></p><p>
  <span>Yet, what would get Wanda to come with? What can he offer her? What does she </span>
  <em>
    <span>need..?</span>
  </em>
  <span> If vengeance is out… Lorenzo swirls the wine in his mouth, scents in as the vapors run up his nostrils and then slowly lets it run down his palette, down his throat. “Wonderful wine. Try the dish, it’s not poisoned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picks at the food as instructed. “Aren’t you having any?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Already had dinner,” he assures her, draining his glass and pouring a new one. He had never pegged her for a worry-wart. But, perhaps this too is part of her growth. Out of habit, he snaps out a fresh cigarette from its case one-handed, puts it into his mouth and fishes for the lighter. Perhaps she’d like to stage a little rescue? Lorenzo knows Pestúnka will not garner much... </span>
  <em>
    <span>sympathy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But, surely, there will be enough poor orphans to save. Will she want to save children like herself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowns then, flounders. “I’ve got enough cash for an extra dish. Or five. I’ve seen Steve eat. You have to be hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not like Steve,” he tells her. Which is true, “don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to eat at all.” frowns, downs his second glass. Lorenzo can also get plenty of calories from wine, if that is what’s on offer. Hell, Lorenzo will get those calories from wine. So, he thinks he’ll quit while he’s ahead, before he ruins this lovely suit, “I adapt. So, right now, less is more. Focus woman. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hydra.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They </span>
  <em>
    <span>used</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. But, you cannot think they’ve stopped. They will have more. They always have more. Children... orphans or unwanted teens. Would you...like to help them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks it gets her, there’s a kind of hope in her expression; Lorenzo pounces on it.  “Do you want to go rescue them? Those little ones like you...? Is that why you want to be an Avenger?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I... would like to. But, how would we? These people, they take you in, feed you... It is hard to imagine they can be evil. When I was with them, I would have died for them... Thought the world of them. Besides. I have something more urgent. Something the Avengers need to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What could be more urgent than </span>
  <em>
    <span>children,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wanda?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-,” Wanda gives him that odd frown again; the disgusted one. “Can we just... look, I’ll explain when the others are here. Can you just eat something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve already met my daily requirements. Look Wanda, there’s a whole week left before the others get here. Don’t you... wanna go save babies?” or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh-my-god. You’re like this because you’re dieting? Nonono,” she gets up. Oh, Lorenzo dislikes that; the amount of disgruntled mom she’s channeling. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>promised</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’d take care of you..”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda’s really a bit of a mother hen, isn’t she? And he... has had enough mothering to last him a lifetime. But, of course, if the hero complex runs</span>
  <em>
    <span> this</span>
  </em>
  <span> strong in her. And if she really needs a damsel... Well, “What’s it matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grows stubborn; jaw set, brow clinched. “I promised Steve I’d take care of you. Promised Sam and everyone. To keep an eye out...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh yes; how he must have worried her. Lorenzo can just about imagine it. How he must have spooked her, disappearing from that hotel a week ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice, jumping an octave and increasingly desperate as she called for him “Mr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes”; the way she zig-zaged through the empty streets. How she must have upturned house after house, abandoned all stealth and flown over the rooftops. Oh, and how she must have lied to Steve, to Sam; to everyone. Assuring he would be saved. That all would be okay...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo makes the worst damsel in distress. But...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, he’d let her try. And that would keep even the Red Witch busy. James slides his phone out onto the table, the airline app open. “I am going to save my friend. We still have a week before the rest get here. Plenty of time for you to get to Cape Hope... or, you could come with me. Fly over to Slovakia. Save my friend. I bet we’ll still be back with time to spare…”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. airplane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lorenzo smiles widely as the customs officer runs his hands over him one last time. The man may turn his head away professionally as he checks sides and inseams, he and Lorenzo still end up breathing the same air, which has a weird intimacy to it. Still the officer deigns not to notice as he runs hands over first Lorenzo's flesh arm, then the vibranium one without a hint of suspicion.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>special thanks to my beta, personaljunkdrawer.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lorenzo smiles widely as the customs officer runs his hands over him one last time. The man may turn his head away professionally as he checks sides and inseams, he and Lorenzo still end up breathing the same air, which has a weird intimacy to it. Still the officer deigns not to notice as he runs hands over first Lorenzo's flesh arm, then the vibranium one without a hint of suspicion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All clear,” the man tells Wanda meaningfully, and Lorenzo thanks him. Then he accepts his backpack, handed to him directly after x-ray control, cleared and sealed. The officer's eyes run over Wanda’s twitching form one last time, reassuring her “really, ma'am. There is </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>on him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda shakes her head with a jerk. Tries to smile, likely tries to muster up the courage to tell the man ‘of course’. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>he is right.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That Lorenzo is unarmed, and a perfectly normal, perfectly safe tourist besides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Wanda, it turns out, is a terrible liar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo shares a laugh with the officer that patted him down. “She</span>
  <em>
    <span> still </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinks I have a knife. I don’t have a knife, Wanda.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Wanda’s face turns red as she crosses her arms. “I never said you did!” she bites, then seems to come to a decision, grabs her hand-luggage by it’s trailer handle and marches down the passenger boarding bridge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a last laugh and a wave, Lorenzo hurries to catch up. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you completely mad</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” her voice is off; a whisper that jumps an octave, like she’s trying not to scream at him. “Telling them I thought you were armed?” An intake of breath, as she bites, “Do you want to get caught?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come on. No harm done, see?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>vibranium arm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>fake</span>
  </em>
  <span> passport. And, be honest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How</span>
  </em>
  <span> many weapons?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two knives and a handgun.” Technically three knives, but he’s not telling Wanda</span>
  <em>
    <span> all </span>
  </em>
  <span>his secrets. She can just go ahead and ferret them straight from his brain if she wants them that badly. “Also, my passport is real.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James Ingcuka is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> your name,” she bites. And this time, really does raise her voice, convinced in her own righteousness. Which is ironic, because the passport Queen Ramonda gifted him is the closest to a legal document he's had in over seventy years. Funny, or it would be if Wanda didn’t ruin the moment by flinching. Because they have reached the plane’s door, and a stewardess is smiling at her just a little too politely. “I cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe</span>
  </em>
  <span> I offered to help </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>...” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Lorenzo smiles and winks at the lady stewardess in her perfect uniform, then lays a friendly arm around the witch’s back, “you are not the only one that can do magic around here…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She snorts, pushes free and ahead. But at least gives him a weak smile when she finds their priority seats. When she slides in towards the window, there is honest enthusiasm in her voice. “Wow. I didn’t know you were</span>
  <em>
    <span> rich.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though her expression clouds over as soon as she looks his way, obviously coming to some unwanted but probably very true theories of where this sudden wealth has come from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo doesn’t even try to deny it. “Never traveled civilian airlines before. Wanted to go for the whole experience.” He’d been on yachts and cruise ships and all sorts of transport. Military aircrafts, a few times. But with the old arm he would never have gotten through customs. So he guesses Wanda hadn’t been that far off with offering to help flummox the metal detectors. But, he could do that himself now, with Shuri’s nifty gadgets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Of course, he was about thirty years too late to enjoy a decent smoke during the flight. Then again, there was a perfectly good lavatory just a few steps away, and a</span>
  <em>
    <span> perfectly </span>
  </em>
  <span>perfect smoke-alarm finding gadget in his arm... How could he ever pass up such an opportunity?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo waits long enough for the take off, ignoring Wanda and her sudden interest in airports and landingways, and the following pretend-nap. But, as soon as the seat-belt lights turn off, he smoothly stands, flicking open the cigarette case right handedly to lift one out with his lips. He’s already reaching back in his pocket for the lighter, when Wanda hoops arms with him, bracing herself against her chair. Wide awake and hissing, “stop it!” like an angry cat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo is quickly running out of patience with the overbearing bitch. “Could you just..? I need to take a leak.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With a cigarette in your mouth? How do you even have that lighter, after getting searched </span>
  <em>
    <span>twice</span>
  </em>
  <span> —” Wanda tugs, nearly pulling him off balance; she is surprisingly strong, not to mention</span>
  <em>
    <span> fucking heavy </span>
  </em>
  <span> “—and passing a bloody metal detector?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d always wondered about Wanda. How easily she’d cut all ties with Hydra. How easily they had let her go. Apparently completely caught off guard that she could betray them. Which is ridiculous, because those fucking Nazi’s backstab each other every chance they get. He figured she’d either gotten extremely lucky, or had outsmarted her handlers.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Now he’s not so sure. In fact, he’s starting to believe Hydra’s spiel on this; the one that says people from Sokovia are just incredibly stupid. “Really?” With a little too much aggression, he pulls his elbow out of her grasp and straightens, “you’re surprised that </span><em><span>the</span></em> <em><span>Winter Soldier</span></em><span> can smuggle a lighter past customs? I mean, really?”    </span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you please..?” Wanda falls back, but claws her way over, long nails scratching the armrest between their priority two-seat. Her hand raises, as if to grab for him again, but she stalls. Realising perhaps the folly, nails inches from Lorenzo’s side. Her voice is what holds him in place instead: brittle and pleading. “Do you even realise there’s a smoke detector in there? Just stop attracting attention, will you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo sighs. The anger, so sudden in his veins drains out just as quickly, leaving him weak and tired, and he slides back into his seat. Wanda squirms back, like he’s acid to the touch. And that’s upsetting. “Relax, I don’t bite, ok?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, the thing that hurts worse. The thing he should be fuming about -yet now, apparently, cannot find the energy to even be upset about- is that Wanda thinks Lorenzo had been</span>
  <em>
    <span> endangering</span>
  </em>
  <span> them. It’s insulting. He’s a fucking master spy; capable of appearing and disappearing at the drop of a hat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Wanda, apparently, isn’t aware. And also, apparently... feels responsible. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind of sweet. Lorenzo swallows twice, before twisting in his seat, back against the armrest as he puts away his smoke, returns it to the safety of his pocket for now. Because Wanda cannot be in the mood for games, if she thinks she has to be the responsible one, now </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> she...?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Does she really think him so incompotent, that the Red Witch herself -with all the stealth and subtlety of a nuclear warhead- would need to care for the secrecy on this mission? Oh, no; surely not. More likely? More likely she thinks him </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad; </span>
  </em>
  <span>Too far gone and psychopathic to care. Well. At least he can set her mind to rest on that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say, do you remember Crossbones? Brock Rumlow?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda freezes for a moment. Turns away, something close to guilt crossing her features as she stares out the window. Then, she steels herself and straightens, faces forward and answers with a clipped “might have met him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like Lorenzo hasn’t gotten the whole story together by now. But, he will not bother her about her misplaced guilt. Because, -oh Wanda- if she’d ever done one thing right, killing Commander </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brock</span>
  </em>
  <span> must have been it. “He looked for me for a while, did you know? Before he did the whole suicide bomber thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nearly caught me twice, and that second time I’d quit disguises all together. Just wore a ballcap and a brightly colored sweater and called it a day. Do you know how I got away?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda peers his way. Intrigued, yet still too upset to ask.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I walked right up to him and asked him for spare change. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Both times. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Actually used the same sentence,” Lorenzo cannot help but bark a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d have preferred to ask him ‘trick or treat’, after one of the man’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid games</span>
  </em>
  <span>. God, but Brock loved his mind games. “That second time the asshole punched me in the stomach and left me right in an alley. But, he never recognised me. Not the first time, definitely not the second time. Do you know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> he didn’t recognise me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witch frowns, a little wrinkle only underlying how young she still is. Young and innocent. Perhaps he should teach her a few tricks. Perhaps that will take away this fun-sucking worry. This absolute folly of an idea that Wanda needs to look out for him. “Because he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know me. Because I was bothering him. Because he wanted to be rid of the damn nuisance I was as fast as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want a disguise Wanda? Go for the ones people will actively work to forget. The characters so </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoying</span>
  </em>
  <span> everyone wishes them out of existence. The smelly homeless guy, sure. But also, the drunk tourist, that asshole that keeps trying to pick you up. That loud American bitch with too much make-up and an opinion on everything. People filter them out, like noise. Trying to make them disappear; to make their own lifes more pleasant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that what you’ve been doing? Is that why...?” Wanda licks her lips, considering. Accepting his half-truth. Just this once though, he’ll give her the rest of it. She should like a bit of teasing. She should fall for that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it’s just more fun this way.” He grins again. “Come on, Wanda. Truce?” offers his hand; the flesh one. Because, “come on, don’t you wanna be my friend?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs, scoots back in her seat a bit, then nods slowly. Takes his hand and shakes it. “Okay, James. Okay, Lorenzo. Just. Stop it with all the surprises, will you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though he really doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> her at times like this, Lorenzo smiles widely. A friendly toothed thing, he hopes. Her fingers are so slender, it’s a gift in it’s own right to get to hold them. Perhaps he lets go a fraction of a moment too late. “I’ll try and confide in you before the punchline at least?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another long-suffering sigh, which Lorenzo thinks is just a little insulting. “I guess that’s the best I’m going to get.” With a shake of her head, she frowns at his expression. At what Lorenzo would hope was an attempt at passing innocent at least. Then she turns away, scoots out of her jacket, and pillows it against the window. “I’m going to take a nap. We’ve got a long flight ahead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a long flight. Nineteen hours’s worth, and Lorenzo groans. Because apparently Wanda plans to spend most of those hours asleep. Which is going to suck, because if it wasn’t bad enough to smell her dreaming while in the same hotel room, now he's closer still and cannot even leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But at least there’s alcohol in flight. Lorenzo waves down the stewardess for little bottle after little bottle of booze, lines them up and realises it might be a good idea to start counting calories. There’s more than just alcohol in there after all, and even </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> breaks down well into sugars. Especially for him, especially now. He counts and recounts, reading the little labels with print so small even he has trouble reading. Chats up a stewardess who is trying to be subtle about not wanting him too drunk, then gives up and studies Wanda’s sleeping form. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Obviously, she’s dreaming again. God but the pheromones on her! And now, way too close. No place to go. Well, Lorenzo doesn’t blame her. How much action did the Red Witch even have? Hydra may be disgusting sickos, but they are also cowards. And Wanda? They don't really make them more dangerous than her. Sokovia’s Hydra really must have been dumber than most. Had they really just taken a bunch of random kids and sprayed them with Scepter rays? Which, you know, usually would just end up with a few dead experiments but obviously they’d struck gold with her. And then...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, all they’d created with her was a monster that they had next to no control over. One stray thought and she would know she was being used. One wrong move and she can make your head explode. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which was why he had picked Lorenzo for her. Lorenzo likes them hot. And Lorenzo is just as much fun as that fucking snake she’s obviously dreaming about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right now... </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi guys, sorry for taking so long. there was a little bit of ff around we rechecks because I wasn't sure this was done. same for the next chapter. that is now begging for me to add more between there and after... sigh!<br/>idk it's getting pretty long. but, maybe ?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. camping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>of horsedick, incest and other irresistable come-ons.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>special thanks to my beta, personaljunkdrawer. I was a liitle worried this one wouldnt work, but I have been assured it does. so, I hope you all share our crazy humor. then again, if you got this far...</p>
<p>it's just banter but this one does have reverence to bestiality, incest and some other stuff. and graphic.. body wierdness?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lorenzo is still working on the embers by the time Wanda comes back with the take-out she picked up at the gates to the camping grounds. It’s February and by all rights Slovakia should be freezing; covered by a thick layer of snow. But it’s a particularly soft winter and even without a fire it’s almost nice, surrounded by woods under a thick cloudy sky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The downside is, of course, that even if they’ve gotten lucky and tonight is a dry night, it’s obviously been raining quite a lot: both the camping’s fire pit and the firewood are soaked through. And any wood Lorenzo’s been able to scavenge is in as poor and sodden a state as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Winter makes them the only souls out on the estate; the camp spot is one visited by rich Western European tourists, and the closest local is the one that rents out the land. A man happily oblivious to their patronage, that collects his dues from his farm-house up the road.The silence and dark and seclusion only make this spot more worth it, surrounded by nothing but blanketing forests and the Milky Way playing hide-and seek from behind veils of clouds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda stumbles around in the dark, the little red light she has running in front of her and fails to help her find a trail, and ruins her night vision. Not to mention the vista of the night above. Still, when Lorenzo gets a good look at her, he has to laugh: “you ordered for the whole week, did you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda scrunches up her nose, then sets the two full bags down hard; stacks of containers peeking out, “don’t tell me you’re not having any again. You have to eat like Steve does. Wouldn’t make any sense if you didn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You are what you eat,” he grins, poking into embers with his left hand in hopes of teasing the fire to grow beyond just smoking pockets, “which is why I refuse to eat any Steves.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The red witch sighs, then flicks her wrist and magics the fire. “Fine,” gives a moment for Lorenzo to stubble back to a safe distance, before cranking it till the flames are a real man-high inferno. “More for me, I guess.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head though, obviously upset, then locates the log-make-shift chair Lorenzo had set up for her and digs into the bag to her left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, Lorenzo definitely enjoys a lady with a bit of fire. But he’s certainly glad she will not push the issue again, so in thanks he gets her cutlery and a log that can serve as a table to eat from. Pulls out the wine -- because that he will not be skipping, and two paper beakers to share. Wanda happily accepts, but when she’s all set up she pauses, sniffing the marinated meats. “Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>these are spare ribs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Local variant. Real good, you’ll love it.” Lorenzo gets his own chair; the solid tree trunk he’d deemed a bit much for the fire, and drags it close. It’s more effort than he’s used to, even his strong left apparently affected by the shortage of bulk. But Lorenzo doesn’t think it will be a problem, even if he sweats a little in the winter night’s air. When he’s pulled the thing next to Wanda, he sits down, satisfied, to admire the fire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, when he finds the witch still only poking at the food, he promises, quite honestly, “it’s definitely not poisoned.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s actually a real worry for me, you know. I don’t know how it is for you, but my magic doesn’t really protect from indigestion…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo snorts at her, grabs a bone before leaning back and throws his legs wide, metal arm over a stump in the wood. Bites off the meat and chews it pensively, before swallowing proudly. “Definitely not poisoned. Unlikely even to give you any indigestion. Now. Tell me about your lover boy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah-hah!” Wanda suddenly gets engrossed in mixing potatoes and vegetables through the sauce, eyes directed somewhere close to the container, yet blinking in a very distracted way. “No, no I don’t think I will.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo rolls his eyes, throws his hands up in a defeated gesture, then steeples them together just so. Slouches back in his seat, laced fingers over his gut. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> sits like this, Lorenzo imagines. Or would, without a staff to hold. And he’d lean back forward, pensively. Would he sleek his hair back with a hand before he’d speak? “Why not?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you made it quite clear, you are not interested. Besides, “ she shrugs. “You would not like him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I won’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. But that doesn’t make me uninterested.” Another dramatic sigh, leaning on his metal elbow. A roll of his eyes, unnoticed or ignored by Wanda. Very well. Subterfuge will not work on her. She is simply too oblivious. “Come on Wanda, tell us about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loki.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jumps to her feet, food shoved forward; almost upsets her table-log to send it all crashing to the floor. “How did you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh please, Wanda?” Lorenzo spends a moment restabilizing her table, arranging the container and cutlery neatly. It’s always annoying, to realise how stupid everyone thinks he is. Seriously, just because he’s been subjected to a few unsolicited electrical lobotomies. “It’s been kind of obvious. You even dream of him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She breathes in deeply, “I talked in my sleep?” then she sits herself down hard. “Oh god, I promised not to tell anyone yet!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eat your food, Wanda. You didn’t mess up. You didn’t say anything.” He sighs at her; for she may not have spoken, her signs and moans have been clear enough. “I won’t tell anyone if that makes you feel better.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda frowns, drags the container close again, mouth working on nothing for long seconds as she looks down. “Would you, please? I promise it’s nothing nefarious,” then she brings the spoon up to her mouth, then sniffs and puts it down again. “What kind of vegetables</span>
  <em>
    <span> are </span>
  </em>
  <span>these, even?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cackling at her, Lorenzo takes the spoon, empties it in his mouth and offers: “just peas in there. A funny thing I guess for rice?” The spoon he sets down to the side and offers her another, clean one, from the bag. Presenting it grandly at her, which gets the plastic accepted. Still, she does not ask if Lorenzo is imitating </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It's fine...”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you!”  Wanda sounds genuinely relieved.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are very welcome. Now, tell me about those non-nefarious plots."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo would rather not have been subjected to this. Rather stepped around all of this. The dreamy sighs. This school-girl innocent crush. “He is... So sweet. Loving. Kind. I- I mean,” Wanda smiles, eyes far away. “Just, so thoughtful...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, well. Right now, Lorenzo is glad he gave up on trying to go around this. Wanda must be getting played. “Are we actually. Talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loki</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Loki? The god of mischief? The one that tried to take over the world?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Loki is very sorry about that. It wasn’t him. He was under some evil influence. I don’t know exactly.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All sounds like the most basic of excuses to Lorenzo. Hell, he could have done better than that? Evil mind-control, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>done</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Whatever. "Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re even his type? I mean,</span>
  <em>
    <span> them?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Lorenzo gestures, trying not to be too crude. “I mean, aren’t you, like a virgin? He... </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the other hand? Definitely not. Definitely the more... adventurous type?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda snorts, “I am</span>
  <em>
    <span> not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a virgin.” A little past annoyed, but hardly angry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kissing a boy in Wakanda doesn’t count, my dear lady.” A quick look tells him she’s still grinning at the fire, a little intoxicated perhaps. The wine was a good idea, because she’s  still amused; still in good spirits. Prodding at the Witch is dangerous, but Lorenzo doesn’t mind. If there’s a little sweat breaking out around his back that’s due to the fire’s heat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> the fire, not his nerves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Lorenzo can </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he’s hardly a</span>
  <em>
    <span> delicate </span>
  </em>
  <span>man. And this requires delicacy. “I mean, I read he birthed an eight legged horse. I mean,</span>
  <em>
    <span> birthed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like a mom. Not that I'm judging. I mean if you're going to try pegging. Or bottoming?” Lorenzo shrugs; the technical terms change. And, back in the day one tried not to be too explicit. That only caused problems. “I mean if you’re a god anyway,</span>
  <em>
    <span> definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> try it with a stallion. Those beasts? Right down to the ground, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Stop! You're going to make me sick. Or, it’s this lamb. Is it even lamb?" Wanda has opened another container. Plucks her spoon right into his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And there you go. - It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> lamb and it’s fine, by the way.” Lorenzo chews, swallows, and accepts another bite. “And that’s exactly what I mean. He’s going to scandalize you so badly that you’re going to spend all your time shocked and confused and not getting any... I mean. You’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> later, I bet. Years from now, when you’re old and start thinking that ‘it’s not the things I did that I regret, but the things I didn't do’...” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, some similar bullshit. Definitely not Lorenzo’s problem. But, whatever works for her. He shakes his head at her, swallowing another mouth-full of marinated meat. He’ll admit he’s happy Wanda hasn’t asked what it is. He’s not sure. But, it tastes great.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda seems in good spirits with the criticism though; opening containers and trying another fork full. She blinks, turns to him acceptingly. Slides her log-chair a little closer. “Well, I wouldn’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Another fork-full as she asks, “how do I stop that from happening?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, it’s perfect. Set up to score. Lorenzo just needs to keep his cool. He takes a dramatically long time to chew and swallow. Carefully. “What you need, girl, is to get some practice in, before he gets here, and leaves you in the dust before you move up to speed.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiles. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Puts a loose hand on his shoulder. The closest one. Hidden vibranium. “Are you</span>
  <em>
    <span> propositioning</span>
  </em>
  <span> me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It’s a bit of a surprise, the relaxed banter in her voice. Lorenzo had expected her to get mad. Still, she shakes her head, bringing up another fork-full. “You’re more like a brother to me, Ja-... Lorenzo? No... I’m sorry. I could never.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo is half tempted to ask if she’d never done her real brother. That guy had been a</span>
  <em>
    <span> looker;</span>
  </em>
  <span> and had a name for being a fast boy. Then again, he’d have that name even if he’d been as asexual as a rock, on account of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> real running speed. Whatever. This is progress, he tells himself, falling away into a moment of reverie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This intimate touch is a good start; this hand on his shoulder. Still a foreign thing between Lorenzo and Wanda. Growth. They will call it growth. Lorenzo can wear away the boxed constructs Wanda would place around her love. All he needs is time. Lorenzo actually needs to cull the dumb smile threatening to spread on his face, the sensation of fingers on his artificial limb still fresh. "Guy is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Wanda. Thousands of years old. And I’m not saying he won’t be into you. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazin</span>
  </em>
  <span>g. But, I mean can you imagine? Just a little painless magic and you look and be whatever you need to be..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just like you…" Wanda siddles closer, holds out a box for him. Shrimp this time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo digs in, popping fried shrimp like grapes. "Just like me..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite.</span>
  </em>
  <span>.. the shrimp turns to ash in his mouth. Because he hadn’t been counting; hadn’t even paid attention to...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How much did I have?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda happily waves and pulls another container from its plastic carry bag. The plastic falls away and drifts along the packed dirt ground, empty. "This is the last box. Guess you were hungry after all, huh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo doesn’t move. He’s still draped backwards on his trunk, and that’s taking most of the weight. But, he can feel in his gut already, how full he is. How much added to him. He’s afraid to keep chewing, though the last bite goes down with a convulsive swallow. He tries - really he does, to keep his heart from speeding up, his muscles from twitching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Wanda asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he obviously is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not okay at all.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d cuss her out, honestly. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>tricked </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Made him eat nearly every morsel of food she’d gotten them. Him, he who was supposed to be the tricksy one. Oh, Lorenzo is just about angry enough to see if he’s fast enough to punch Wanda in the throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>the time</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Could you... Could you hand me my backpack?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shrugs, a worried crease in her forehead as she bends down, then tosses it at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bloody bitch, she must have looked in his mind. She must </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What will happen; what is about to happen if he flexes with this much calories to spare... Still, caught between needing to turn to catch the bag with his vibranium arm and catching it with his flesh, right, Lorenzo knows the only choice is to use his right. He hisses at her, in warning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda gets to her feet, taking half a step back before stopping herself. “What is? Are you ill?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d known it was coming. His right forearm and hand are suddenly hot, the sensation of fire pumping through them, making him twitch. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to tense, really he does. But, he must have failed, because the pumping, twitching sensation travels up to his biceps. “I bloody well am now.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you. Do you need a bucket?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel sick enough to throw up, but he doubts there’s anything left down in his stomach apart from that last mouthful of shrimp. He's been eating at a slow and steady pace, which is why even now his stomach hardly feels full. Hell, if he’d thought barfing would have a shadow of a chance to stop what is coming, he’d have two fingers down his throat right now. “Fucking too late for a bucket now, isn’t it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs, and fucks up by another few degrees. The heat travels again, past his shoulder and spreads out through his back and neck. His shirt stretches over expanding muscles, until he can feel the buttons strain. Trying to minimize his breathing in hopes of slowing the process. The heat spreading out under his skin is bad enough, but the worse will be the deep muscles. Already, he can feel them straining, under ribs and bones. Pushing against sinew and stretching joints that had a good week to sink in, to accommodate for </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But now, the other way, is -as always- too fast. Like elastic snapping. At least he knows what is coming; remembers how and understands </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>. At least he knows how to slow it, if only by seconds. The push against his spine turns into heat in his pelvis as he sits up, very very carefully. Muscles filling out till the seat of his pants feels more like a mold than fabric. He really needs to get his other pants </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, sitting up actuates the abdominal muscles, and Lorenzo knows it’s a lost cause. He still tries to keep quiet at least long enough to get his spare, loose track pants out. But, it’s no good. The belt cuts as his muscles happily expand, pulling taunt at other places and stretching fabric right along his buttcrack. When the sensation travels forward, towards his balls, he yelps a quick “Fuck it,” and jumps to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too late; the belt’s buckle gives, the fabric tears and Lorenzo’s thousand dollar Armani pants are no more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda chokes, eyes wide as she takes in him growing back those few inches in height and many more in girth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, she laughs at him. “What are you? The Hulk?”   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rest In Pieces, his one piece of quality clothing. “I'm sure angry enough right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he’d hoped his murderous scowl would squash her laughter, he is proven wrong. Wanda starts laughing in earnest now. The hand she’d held to her mouth drops in favour of holding her abdominals, the ravenous laughter treated like physical pain. “You mean, you’re h</span>
  <em>
    <span>angry,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” then she positively snorts, drops of wine go flying, “Hangry Hulk!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, when she notices his expression: “Oh, please. This is better?” Wanda leans over, calming herself. And, oddly, him as well. When she leans her hand on the seam of his metal shoulder, peeking out of the poor, ripped shirt. “You look back to normal now, at least. Much more healthy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” at least she’s looking. At least he thinks he’s snagged her interest. It’s near a shame his shorts have survived. That would have gotten him more than a hand on skin, surely. But, she’s definitely ogling his muscles. Though that might be because they’re still quivering a little, burning from the effort. “We’ll go back to Bucky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought it was James?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda cocks her head to the side and, sadly, pulls her hand back. “Sam told you you preferred James?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But, not with </span>
  <em>
    <span>her.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He doesn’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be James when he’s with the Red Witch. It doesn’t sound smart. Doesn’t feel safe. He’d failed bad enough with Shuri, a perfect angel of a princess. He doesn’t even want to think of how badly things could go with a woman straight from his worst nightmares.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine, “ James sighs. It’s not fair, but what is he going to do about it? Still, if Wanda likes her quarry to bleed, perhaps he “Should have gone for Monica instead.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who is Monica?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“ No one,” that’s what Wanda would have</span>
  <em>
    <span> liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>about her. “Absolutely fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>no-one.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Bratislava camping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James spends slow, painstaking hours scratching paint off his Vibranium prosthetic with a combat knife.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no new warnings,<br/>special thanks 2 gray for beta!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>James spends slow, painstaking hours scratching paint off his Vibranium prosthetic with a combat knife. The left short sleeve is the only part of his shirt that survived his transformation intact; the soft, silky burgondy red short-sleeved he’s sorry to lose nearly as much as the pants. Still, he cuts open the left side and spends hours in the dark. The ambers simmer down to a faint glow and he’s left with the scratch-scratch sound and the feel of the handle in his right and sensors in his left coming alive again and it’s..</span>
  <em>
    <span> interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say the least. The sensation of the blade scratching over fake-skin. Like nail scratching an itch, yet never drawing blood. Like digging up a coffin buried six-foot underground, the occupant thought dead but not, silently listening to the digging spades; quiet and still till the lid burst open and fresh cold air comes rushing in. Cold-hot-open in vibranium sensors-exposed, gulping in air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Goosebumps, the phantom feel of them on his left arm till they break out all over; on his chest, peeking out through his ragged shirt, on his exposed right. Or, perhaps that’s the cold. He really should get his jacket out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s going to be James, he should definitely bother with a jacket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After shaking up the embers and digging a kettle in, he returns to clearing out the seams with the tip of the blade, the tactile functions expanding ten-fold. A marvellous freedom of senses so overpowering that it borders on painful. James had hardly noticed how dulled touch had been through the paint’s film. Not until now, as he wipes off the last filets of paint with the rags of his fine, ruined pants. This sensation will fade in time, he knows. Still James cannot help but worry. With the glove of paint gone from the vibranium, it has turned raw and hypersensitive. It feels like it’s a delicate and breakable thing, instead of the near-indestructible construct it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flexing out to the left, then in front, as the first rays of morning bounce off still-black metal. He rotates the shoulder, makes a fist then fans out fingers and extends. All are familiar, but in a faded way. He feels like the limb has only just been returned to him. Like he’s kept it in a box since becoming Lorenzo, and now it’s back and he’s not sure he’ll be able to master it again in time...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where is a piano when you need it most?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, it is still beautiful. Still perfect. Black with bright highlights in the oncoming sunrise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James doesn’t drop the extended hand. Doesn’t turn his head Wanda’s way either. He only moves his eyes/gaze to give a furtive look her way from under eyelashes. She’s a dozen paces to his left, still in the entrance to the log bungalow, a blanket wrapped over her shoulders. The bungalow he’d broken open for her himself, before promising to find himself his own. And he’d heard her move about, shuffling through her morning rituals. James should not be caught off guard at her appearance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he is. Being with Wanda is weird; different. James is used to being the dangerous one. But she, the Red Witch, eclipses his abilities. She could march right into Bratislava city and level it. Visit the Hydra base he’s heading for all by her lonesome self and burn it to the ground. Blow James’s head off his shoulder or wipe all of him away with a thought. Mind, body and soul. Any or all. Again, forever. She is the upgrade, after all. The Two-Point-Oh version of Hydra’s perfect weapon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though she somehow remains unaware. Unassuming and humble. Perhaps she doesn’t realise she is a threat to him at all. Perhaps she is more afraid of him than he is of her. Perhaps he could be fast and sudden enough to end her. So quick and out of nowhere not even he himself knew he was about to strike a killing blow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much new, yet still the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James shakes himself; knows he waited too long to reply. Then adds injury to insult when he fumbles to take the tin kettle out of the fire. Drops out near a quarter of the water before he gets it righted. The left, metal hand he puts in his mouth like a child, absentmindedly suckling at it while his right, flesh, checks to see if the kettle is balanced in the grass. Still he knows he’s fucked it up when Wanda rushes over, hissing curses. She hovers over the right hand, like she wants to reach out and touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The confusion on her face when he finally dares a quick glance should be funny. Lorenzo would think it’s funny. James, today, is just in a very bad mood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda hovers a moment then turns to the pale with cold water. “First thing to do with burns is cool them,” she admonishes, dragging it over for him. She looks in charge, even with her hair still in a wild witch’s bed-head and her blanket now somewhere in the dirt behind her. “Put it in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one?” he asks, feeling more than a little belligerent, as he holds up the mismatched pair. Both are markless by now of course; he’d not burned himself that bad. When he shrugs at her incredulous expression James does feel slightly better. The witch may have her swirly red ichor, James has the blue stuff. He doesn’t know exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> those should be alike, but he is sure they are. Perhaps because the witch’s curse fucks with reality in the world around them, and his fucks with him from inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, much as he doesn’t begrudge Wanda her magic, he is definitely jealous enough of her ability to turn the magic off. Changing back so fast, so unexpectedly fucked him up. If the vibranium feels raw and exposed, the rest of him must have been flayed. Not so much scratched bare but skinned and gutted. In fact, right now the metal arm is the only part that feels like his at all. His flesh muscles hang heavy, his limbs too long and his thigh so thick he doesn't even know how to sit comfortably; to cross or splay because neither turn his buttocks into any decent seating. Then there’s his right arm, biceps getting tangled with pecs when he crosses or reaches to his left; triceps bumping muscles in his back when he lets it hang. Everything is thick and wide and nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>fits</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even his face feels exposed; bare and missing the curtain of hair he once had to hide behind. To make things worse, he will have to shave before they head out. A black stubble beneath blond hair is just going to attract attention. Or, attract </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> attention. Not that he’ll get very far trying to infiltrate Hydra in this body anyway. Anyone who’s watched the news in the last three years is bound to recognise him from a mile away. Well, whatever. Before that he can at least go back to making friends. He can at least show a modicum of manners and offer Wanda “Coffee?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanda blinks at him twice, the pale forgotten in her hand, before she sets her jaw “I prefer tea, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And James nearly cringes. How had he ever thought Lorenzo would click with Wanda? He hadn’t even bothered to find out her preferred morning beverage. What else had Lorenzo just assumed, just pushed right at her? Lorenzo would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> have worked, James should have realised. Lorenzo had been a player and a partier. As much as James had liked being Lorenzo, he should have remembered. The original was too aggressive for any but the wildest dames. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have remembered, Lorenzo had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>conceived</span>
  </em>
  <span> to fail. “We will get you some soon. And a decent breakfast at a diner,” James promises. Because he has absolutely nothing to offer Wanda, other than the coffee grounds he has in his backpack, and a spiked juice he’d pilvered from their flight. Nothing decent to drink, because some </span>
  <em>
    <span>asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span> hadn’t bothered to think ahead. Nothing to eat because some selfish bastard and gorged himself on their food supply yesternight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo really was the worst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Bucky would have been a worse choice. Because... no. He’s not going there again. Now he’s here, and right at the edge of running back into the jaws of that slavering beast. Because if he misses Shuri, he aches for Wakanda. Safely as far away from Hydra as one could ever hope to be. Still, he’s right back here at the gates of hell.  And for what? For who? If his dear nurse is even alive at this point... Would she want him to come for her? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pestúnka hadn’t even been happy to hear from him last time. She had told him to fuck off, hadn’t she...? Still, she might need saving. Might need to be carved out from that puss-ridden monster that is Hydra. And Bucky would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to cut open that beast again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James stills the knife that had made it back into his hand. Twirling around and around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Priorities. That’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Bucky’s problems really. Wanda and Pestúnka should come first. If Pestúnka is bound to be difficult in all the ways, Wanda will be at least in the one way Bucky gives a shit. She pretty much spelled out she didn’t want to go looking for vengeance. Didn’t need to go looking and spill Hydra blood. Though if this is actually true, he’ll need to observe in first person before he believes it. They’d hurt her, even if she doesn’t know it, doesn’t realise. Even if the Scepter didn’t burn her blood like the Tesseract would have. He does wonder, did it flail her mind like it flailed his skin? Poor right in and replace her blood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter. there’s himself to consider as well now; the gaping hole that is his stomach. James knows he’d better replenish and soon, before his wack metabolism starts eating muscle and even cartilage, again. Before it notices there</span>
  <em>
    <span> is no food</span>
  </em>
  <span> and turns into what he likes to think of as ‘emergency starvation mode’. Seriously, he does wish he’d just store fat like real people. Changing appearance is a useful skill, but he never will enjoy the process. What did the Mother used to call it? Oh yes, perfect adaptation. Well, screw her. It fucking hurts. Like a weight on his shoulders, even now. Or maybe that’s the poor weight distribution.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using the knife to pry open the valve, he injects the somewhat cooled water into the first calibrating pocket in his arm. James figured he’d be best off using disinfected water to fill up the small reservoirs, but the sudden heat is a shock to the system. Or, perhaps the pumping sensation is normal. The light, he had at least read, is what he should expect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s all but drained the reservoirs for Lorenzo. Probably pushed the system past the safe limits. Now, as he fills it up, the glows from the seams picks up again. Like it’s making up for lost time, hungry and burning water now that it’s plentiful and the light no longer needs to be hidden.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful.” Wanda, still at his right, is crouched down on her haunches, arms crossed over her knees. The tone of her, the smell of her, is honest wonder. Without, or unaware of any double-meaning or ill-intent. James doubts she even knows why she would feel so attracted to his vibranium arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why would she question it? It’s objectively beautiful. Wanda is hardly the first one fascinated by it. And, it was built by Shuri herself. Wanda has no reason to question this sensation. Though James knows exactly why she, above anyone else, would be attracted to it. Why she’d be drawn to it; feel the pull. Yet why indeed, bother her with that knowledge? Perhaps Mother had been right, and too much knowledge is a burden. A thing that slows one down. But, James knows one thing beyond all else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it comes to the senses, he’d rather hurt than stay numb. James would rather drown than dry out, would rather gorge than starve, rather fry than flat-line. Would rather burn than freeze. Jamse would rather feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much</span>
  </em>
  <span> than nothing at all. “Want to touch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is better than anything he could imagine when she trails a fingernail over his metal skin. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Facade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James is not one to jump the gun on half-truths and hunches. Still he’s not one for slow intel and waiting either, and he’d be a lot more bothered about wasting time if his other mission wasn’t going so stupendously well.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They visit a third safe-house in just as many days. It’s the first place James thinks might be worth investigating further. The kind of Soviet era high rise that looks sleek and clean from afar still, but will hide the most derelict of secrets within. They have strolled here through the sprawling Bratislava suburbs, straight from a local diner where they had their breakfast. And, if this turns out to be a dud; if this goes as poorly as house number one and two, they’ll walk back to that same diner again for lunch. Then probably have dinner at the hotel of choice for tonight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s taking longer than expected, to find what he needs. To get into the network and follow the right leads. No real surprises there, all his information is hopelessly outdated. James hasn’t been here since the eighties, and all his contacts are long-since retired. Only one of the old Hydra holes still shows signs of use, and while it’s possible his old nurse is out there, he’s barely found a trace to prove as much. Without Lorenzo here, to sniff up on those traces, to drink into right ears and fall into the right holes finding substantiation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> is difficult.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James is not one to jump the gun on half-truths and hunches. Still he’s not one for slow intel and waiting either, and he’d be a lot more bothered about wasting time if his </span>
  <em>
    <span>other mission</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn’t going so stupendously well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, he does not frown at stacked windows in concrete as they stroll past. Instead he slings an easy left arm over Wanda’s shoulder in misdirection while he catalogues risks and traps. A prestige housing project from the Soviet era, beige concrete broken up by white window panes going up at least fifteen stories. The entryways now show negligence: the glass doors on top of the stepped entry portals paced every fifty yards are dirty, where the burden of communism had kept them clean and shining right up to the fall of the Berlin Wall. Further back behind the dirty glass, he can just make out the intercom boards to ring for entry, filthy and in disrepair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, James reads the signs that tell him people still come through regularly. He can hear an old person on the fifth story watching TV. And there’s someone else breathing heavy, like they’ve got asthma, another story up to the left. With half the buildings in this street completely abandoned it’s a decent front, and James decides this is the safe-house slash resource depot that will yield what they need.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James is well aware that he looks badly out of place. The leather jacket covering his prosthetic is too new: shiny with blue lined pockets in a subtly rich way that suited Lorenzo but straigns at James’s shoulders. His left hand is now hidden in Wanda’s hair, but the black metal still happily reflects any ray of sunshine breaking through the overcast sky, and will fool only the most ignorant eyes into believing it’s a glove. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he misses Lorenzo terribly. Lorenzo wouldn’t mind having to shave every morning. Wouldn’t mind sticking out and striking a pose; would bathe in any attention he got and pass every test anyone on look-out could throw at them. Would definitely not mind this stupid blond hair, too short to even cover his eyes —where are his sunglasses anyway?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it’s a small sacrifice. Wanda and him are growing closer and closer, honesty apparently her favourite currency. And if James does cover himself with Lorenzo’s lecherous grin and hangs onto her a little too tightly when they step out and about like this, she allows for that without complaint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A compromise, of sorts: Wanda doesn’t like Lorenzo, but she does </span>
  <em>
    <span>tolerate</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. As long as James throws him over like a spare blanket, instead of forcing his body into the shape of him. And James, from his side, thinks they make a convincing pair: Wanda has a local enough face, and she looks out of place in an immigrant-visiting-her-poor-relatives manner, instead of his spy-lost-in-the-wrong-century way. If he stays pressed to her side any ex-Sovjet or Ex-KGB or Hydra or what-else will almost certainly disregard them as a fresh couple visiting the mother in law.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This bit of subterfuge she has accepted and adapted well. Wanda smiles up around in a faux-relaxed manner and straightens her Bordeaux pea-coat, before she pulls the arm closer around her, and whispers: “do you think we’ll find your friend here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Find his Pestúnka; the question fills him with warmth and worry. Warmth at Wanda’s unwavering willingness to follow him on this errand. One that she doesn’t understand nor benefits from in any way. He really</span>
  <em>
    <span> does </span>
  </em>
  <span>appreciate that. He hopes Pestúnka will appreciate it as well. He’d think so. The nurse had always been clear about her opinions and wishes, and Sokovians were practically brethren to her. Meeting Wanda should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But also</span>
  <em>
    <span> worry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because James is going against Pestúnka’s one clear wish by looking for her at all. She’s likely to be pissed, so she might decide to take offence at Wanda too, just on principle. James would </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> it if the old woman was rude to his new friend. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be </span>
  <em>
    <span>unbearably</span>
  </em>
  <span> rude. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, even if Pestúnka will call him unthankful and disrespectful James can’t just leave it like this, unaware if she is even still alive. James may not need her any longer, still he does </span>
  <em>
    <span>need to know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Loose ends go against his nature, and if there’s anything he should know by example it is never assume someone dead until you’ve checked their smoking remains...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, before any of that… James blinks, fits on a softer, thankful smile and inclines his head till his chin is touching Wanda’s crown, offering: “before that, we’ll need supplies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda thumbs him lightly in the side in answer, then starts to disentangle towards the closest entryway. She doesn’t mind going in. She will not recoil at a little dirt they are likely to find, and James does appreciate that. Still, he catches her hand, and one meaningful glance is enough for her to follow him, not ask stupid questions. Because the right ingress is, of course, at the back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though if they were out of place before, now they are just sticking out: it’s a lucky thing so few people are about, because the back alley is no place for tourists: for one thing, it reeks. For another, stepping around all the litter people must have thrown down makes even James nervous about more projectiles incoming. When they reach the right path, the beat-up, graffitied roll-up garage door is entirely too honest about what lies behind: some clever teenager even put a little swastika on the bottom corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James frowns down at it, pursing his lips, while Wanda puts into words: “Well, that is ominous.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ominous, for what is supposed to be a hidden caché. Still, he forces the door up with his strong left and steps into the kind of stale air that tells a story of abandonment and negligence. No, more than that, the place isn’t just derelict; it’s used and run down. Squatters must have holed up here at one point, and they used one corner as an open lavatory. Small garage doors line up, broken open and insides pillaged bare. Three niche-like private garage areas mark the exceptions: one with an old Lada inside, tires and hood removed, engine stripped bare of all usable parts. The second broken open and full, used as a make-shift junkyard. And the third, final slot, the usual garage opening replaced by a wall in which center sits a single closed door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James examines that wall and simple door with a queezie sense of urgency. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> been opened, he can see now, but the looters must have closed it again. Because as uncaring and crude they treated this place, this one room must have hit a sensitive area in their dead palette. The one thing to affront the affrontees. And he cannot help throw an appraising look back at Wanda before bringing a hand down to the handle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s half a frown on her face, but her stance is neutral. Familiar, perhaps, with the leavings after plunder. Where </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wanda grow up, before finding her way into Hydra’s deceitful embrace? What rocks did her and her brother crawl under to stay out of the rain, to sleep dry and safe in a country torn asunder by war? He doesn’t know, except that the clash of blades between two superpowers is the worst place for a child to grow up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, her simple acceptance gives him the power to forge ahead inside, into a make-shift office that has been forgotten by time. The rug under the desk comes alive with fleas at their proximity, freshly hatched from their eggs and skipping towards him with famished intensity, their jumps like a patter of rain on the floorboards. He ignores them and their arrival, well aware that drinking his blood will poison them more efficiently then a swat, and looks around as Wanda waits inside the entryway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It has changed some since his last visit. The side walls are still covered floor to ceiling by shelves and cupboards, but doors and drawers have been yanked off and the few folders left have been strewn on a heap like a pyre ready to put to flame. The old Stalin portrait he remembers facing the door has been replaced by a hanging carpet that he suspects once depicted the Hydra logo, but has been blessedly and unrecognisably defaced. The desk set in the center remains, two of it’s legs set firmly on the living rug that he does remember to have been fine and unmoving Persian once upon a time. The set-up and powerstrips suggest the addition of a computer, but that has perhaps proven to be too much of a boon to the looters, and has long-since been removed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a dirty, useless mess and digging any deeper is futile; will only offer them more dregs and manure. And yet,.. and yet James pushes back the desk and reaches for the rug, ignoring the little insects clamoring up and under his jacket, feasting on his flesh. Just like those insects they will have to dig inside to find what they are looking for. But James doesn’t even understand why he keeps going, when he’s well aware anything left will be as poisonous as his own blood is to the fleas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No; he’s almost sure there will be nothing of his supplies left below. Almost certain anything down there will be useless. And yet, he has to look. Has to pull the latch on that hidden trap door, then peer down the ladder that heads below, to the hidden caché.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Into the dark, empty nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands peering down into it, surprised when not even his eyes can find a hint of light to work with. Nothing beyond the first wooden rug. Perhaps he stands there, debating going down into the dark too long, whiffing air of something long-dead. Wondering why he’s so sure, despite appearances that there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> something down there to find, yet also sure that he’d rather not find it at all. Rather not see, and most definitely not show. Then Wanda’s slow tack-tack heels close and come to a stop beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small red light catches his attention, and he turns in time to see Wanda gesture and send it down, revealing rugs of the wooden ladder and lighting his way. So, James follows to the hidden room beneath, stepping from the ladder into strewn paper, the remains of files long turned into rat’s nests, critters within scurrying away. A living carpet of pulp he still cannot clearly define.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is the worst sign, honestly, because if there had been one thing the original Nazis took pride in it was their documentation and methodical paperwork. And, during the Sovjet era, hiding within the pelt of Russia and America both like few fleas left on him — the patient ones, that have yet to try their luck on his blood and have burrowed beneath his shirt instead —  James knows that they kept that up, flaunting documents like it proved their supremacy to any other form of dictatorship. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This place, however... is long past that ideal. Passed right through Social Nihilism, to Capitalist Destructionism and onto post-apocalyptic Chaos. The weapon’s locker is empty, not a single clip left. The cots in the corner look as he’d left them, and several old, bulky computers have been lined against the wall, an addition from after James’s last visit. Despite that James can already see they are well past working. Old 5 ¼ inch disks are set in rows of nibbled-on squares that will never fit into the computer’s slots again, with their chewed corners and wrinkled water-damaged covers. A wardrobe closet taunts him with empty hangers, the suits and stealth-equipment that had once been perfectly fitted to him long gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t come down he-” , James breaks off, scowling as Wanda's heels land into the nestings with a near-silent crack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She just shrugs at his expression, expanding her light in increments. “It’s fine. Rat’s are actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> misunderstood creatures,” she assures, looking around and stepping around a higher patch of wads and ruined files. “They won’t come near us if we keep off their nests. In fact, they are far more frightened of us, than we are of them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She moves through the space with purpose, stepping around the aggravation of tiny beating hearts hidden within the paper stacks, then checks the thin door set in the far wall that leads to a toilet and shower corner. Next she finds the hidden safe, behind a wall panel and opens it with her Red Magic. Her snort already gives sound to the effect that there’s nothing of import inside, but James moves closer anyway, staring at papers in such degraded condition he cannot tell if they were originally documents or cash or something else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he feels the need to tell her, “for dragging you down to this useless rat’s nest.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine, really. I kind of like rats.” she smiles, one corner of her mouth moving up in the half light. “They are actually not all that dirty, and fiercely loyal. If I ever were to get a pet, it would be a rat. Have you been down here before?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Twice. Once with Angelica, once with...” what was her name? “One of the Red Room Girls.” So many girls, so similar. His memory ranges from eideic to Swiss-cheese, he should be forgiven for losing this one. “Angelica was before we’d found out the KGB had been infiltrated by Hydra.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, he should say, before </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> found out. The Soldier hadn’t really found out about Hydra afterwards either. Or he had, but forgot. James laughs, a humorous sound. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>convenient</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It was before she’d even stopped pretending with her sham marriage. So nothing even happened. But we pulled the bunk beds together and snarked at each other. It was nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestures towards the cot’s corner, caught in some kind of need to keep talking, keep pointing, gesturing at all the things there, to not let her see the things missing. No restraints or Chair or cryo. Just him and her in a room, with a perfectly accessible way out. “The swastikas weren't up back then,” he promises her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda turns around in a slow circle. The calm, content smell of her permeating now with a sharp hint of sadness. “She sounds like a wonderful person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hated her guts.” Sharp words that cut right out of him, both a lie and the truth, and he twitches in place, torn between jumping to meet the threat, and trying to hide this shit-show. But he is well-aware that hiding anything from the Red Witch is impossible, because magic, </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic,</span>
  </em>
  <span> magic! With a sigh, he sinks down on a cot instead, the mattress under him turning to dust on hard metal wire. “She is dead now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence holds a moment too long, because even Wanda doesn’t know how to answer. And, perhaps he should not have expected her to. She may have insights no one else has, but surely she is not omniscient. “I am.. sorry?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which startles such a laugh out of him, that it’s hardly a surprise when Wanda, near-angry bites out, “what did she do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What did Angelica do? She lived. A terrible crime. Lived long past her expiration date and went sour. Tried and tried to live as long as she could. Which, logically, is not actually something James should be allowed to take offence at, he knows. Because James’s one and foremost purpose has always been to keep himself savely away and out of Hydra’s hands for as long as possible.  And, before that. Yes, before it all, he’d made that one choice willingly, hadn’t he? That one, terrible crime that caused it all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, he'll blame that one on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve.</span>
  </em>
  <span> On false promises and skewed insight. On lies and worthless, fake friends. Oh, just thinking about it makes Bucky rear up, almost uncontrollable, down here in his element. Fiery, angry and thirsting for blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, OK. Does Wanda want a report? He can still do reports, James is good at reports. Even when there was nothing inside him, he could do a decent mission report. He can still do the same when there’s too much, when his skin tries to tear from the bubbling creatures inside all crowing to get out. “This Op’s gone to shit. The intel is dated, our cover is blown, we have zero leads and absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> equipment,” no tac vests, no guns. No nothing. Except...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There, on the floor, something sparkles in the red light. James drops to his knees in the dirt, uncovering gleaming metal. Digs further in rat’s piss and pulls it loose. Then, with a gasp find what he’s pulled out is a…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A serrated old blade. Old-fashioned steel. Useless, to him.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Like</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Like Bucky. The irony strikes him in the face like an open backhand. Lazy and loose but all the more jarring for it. He, of all people should know not to dig too deep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking ancient useless safehouse. Why did he ever think it would still be any good? The thing’s a fossil. Near as old as he is. Useless rundown and rotting from the inside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“James, James. Look at me?” Wanda crouches down and takes his hands, enveloping both, and the useless knife within. And James tries, but the diner’s meals are trying to make their way up as is, and he needs the calories. So he only turns his forehead in her direction and hums a no-comment hum. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s stupid, because there’s no place to hide left. All the dirt has finally spewed up and covered the both of them, head to toe. There’s no point in trying to hide anything. If his guts come out of his mouth too, if more comes out as well, spewing from his mouth like puke, how could even </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>make things worse? Wanda is sure to be disgusted, sure to have reached the bottom of her patience. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, James? Tell me what’s wrong. Look at my face.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is so much an ‘eyes up here’ reverence that he has to say, “I was looking at your boobs. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking at your boobs.” in a rush, before swallowing down whatever else tried to come up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it breaks the stalemate inside him, especially as Wanda snorts at him. She does not sound disgusted. She does not sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “That sounds like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lorenzo </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing,” her hands, small around the backs of his own. Soft touch, somehow far away. “We wouldn’t do Lorenzo in private, you promised me, remember?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yes, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember. And also, in turn, he remembers Wanda’s promise, as well, as she reiterates: “I’ll help, you know I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he stares at her hands, the splayed fingers of a protective cage and trails his gaze up slowly. Attention drawn to the stitchings in her coat, to the collar, it’s oversized buttons just a shade darker red than the rest of the thick material. He still gets stuck on her mouth, glossed subtly and straigning slightly with tension. Still, she waits with untold patience. When he finally makes it to her eyes, whatever just tried to squash him and stamp him into the ground falls like a weight off his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She isn’t angry, she isn’t disgusted, and she has yet to turn her back on him. Because she survived as well, didn’t she? Perhaps he is as bad as Angelica ever was. Perhaps the old proverb is true, and one either dies young or lives long enough to become the thing you hate the most. Perhaps it was inevitable, for both of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, perhaps it is inevitable for Wanda, as well. Perhaps his instincts are right, and she and him are the same. She understands. Death is the trapdoor, the escape hatch. But Bucky, the fool, nailed it shut himself. Gave it up willingly, in all his idiotic, gullible innocence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda made the same choice, and the consequences have yet to bear their rotten fruit. She has to understand, </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to feel that same spark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And as long as she stays at his side, in whatever capacity — he hardly cares right now. However she’d like. With them as a pair... what more</span>
  <em>
    <span> weapons</span>
  </em>
  <span> will they need anyway? Wanda, who can touch your mind and blow your brain? Isn’t she the biggest gun of all?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They hurt them both, didn’t they? Over and over. Doesn’t she want to spill a little blood in return? Not like they could ever return their share, what they took in their greed for more, or with the amount they dialysed through him in that attempt to regrow an arm he didn’t want, didn’t need. How much of her had they cut out? How much of her would she like to take back? Chomp down on and break off like a salivating rottweiler? She may act calm and sane, but surely, with a decent excuse...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bucky may revel in violence, may be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to jump into that fray. Bucky may take comfort in the knowledge that they couldn’t kill him if they tried, but he sure can murder a lot of them. Bucky may think that it’s only a little pain that they can take from him. But Bucky is a fool. James knows it’s more important to</span>
  <em>
    <span> live</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to escape, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, James can. Now, he knows. Yes, this was the ace he's been looking so hard to find.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, James takes Wanda’s hand, and takes her under. Out through a secret way, through empty and dark alleys. Out, into the countryside. Following all the signs, both digital and in the scenery. To the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>rat’s nest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Firstly,  merry Christmas my lovely people!! boy this chapter, been kicking my ass. Actually, this one and the next. It was one, then two, then I didn’t see the point of two and I made it 1 and it got so complicated I had to check my themes and what it was about again, write them down at length. Then, hey, it was two themes? But no character development. Then I realised I’d just missed the development between characters and put that back in and then it was.. Had to be two again so.. Are you still with me? God, but what a mess! It’s fixed now, I hope. Think? l</p>
<p>So, special thanks to my lovely beta, Gray.<br/>Also, next chapter the reappearance of a fan favourite.  Points for guessing who!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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